Merry Christmas, or 'Sheng Dan Jie' Everyone...from the land of tea, firecrackers, and IPO's.
Yes, the Chinese have their own term for Christmas - like they have their own words for everything. Such as: Britney Spears (Bu Lan Ni) also known as Xiao Tain Tian, or 'Little Sweetie'. Or Tiger Woods (Tai Ge Wuzi), the Hilton Hotel (Shi Er Tan), and the list goes on. It can be maddening for the traveler, as nothing, and I mean NOTHING is known by it's English name. So, while the Chinese are very excited about Christmas, and any other reason for celebration for that matter, about twenty percent of the local population (and far less in the countryside) would actually know what you were talking about if you said 'Merry Christmas' to them. But mention Sheng Dan Jie and they are ready to break out the bai jiu (industrial strength white alcohol) and dance a jig. Walking around on Christmas Eve tonight felt almost like a teeming Times Square: party hats, noise makers, little light-up devil's horns? And that's just it - it could have easily been Halloween, just switch the orange and black for red and green and everyone's good to go.
The front of my apartment tower has a Christmas tree with lights and a scattering of 'presents' underneath. There are also lights draped over the foyer, spray painted snow, and cardboard Santa images taped to the glass. When I asked my Chinese tutor what the people thought of old St.Nick, she told me, 'Oh, they don't know who he is or even care...he just seems like a festive, jolly character so they like him'! Sort of how I felt about him as a kid, I suppose. But to me he was also the harbinger of home baked goodies, presents, and no school. For the Chinese, he just represents shopping and an exotic party. Where I live in central Shanghai there are Christmas decorations everywhere, and in the touristy Xintiandi area where I go to the gym, there must be a hundred Christmas trees alone. Two things: One, it is intensely commercial, and represents making money (something worshiped by Chinese) so no one wants to be 'out-Christmas-ed' by the next guy, and two, it's an excuse to straight up party. Add to this the venerable Chinese tradition of copying anything even remotely successful, and it makes for one heady mix of blinking trees, gold wrapped pillars, electric life-sized watusi-ing santas, and full sled and reindeer renditions. When I stop to take it all in and realize that I'm in fact in the People's Republic of China, it starts to remind me of psychedelic song lyrics from the sixties. Mao meets Santa for a cosmic commie be-in.
And so...on we go, hurtling into 2008 (er ling ling ba). As Shanghai morphs into Hong Kong before my very eyes (the previous row-house neighborhoods on three out of four sides of my building are gone in the year and a half I've lived here - quickly, as in around the clock, being replaced with high-rises and new subway stations) I still find comfort in the small neighborhood things. Where there were once seven or eight fruiterers on my block, there are now two. Six had the rug quite literally pulled out from underneath them. But there is still an impressive array of fresh fruit all the time, and last week marked the seasonal reappearance of my favorite jin jiu, or mandarin oranges. I still stop in the local foot massage joint monthly to have the dogs squeezed and punched for an hour, followed by a bizarrely thorough pedicure that involves chisels - don't ask. Total price: $4. Ahh, the little things in life, I do savor them.
So I'm here for Christmas, and then heading off to San Francisco on the 28th for three weeks to produce and album for a new artist - a rapping Yoga teacher from Marin County who has his own school there. He's called MC Yogi, and before anyone else tries the gag - yes I have already asked him if his DJ's name is Boo Boo. But his style is very tight, and I'm excited to work with him. It's a new genre really (Yoga Hip Hop?) and that always interests me.
I hope this finds everyone happy and healthy, and at least slightly nicer than naughty. It's been an interesting year, and I'm looking wholeheartedly at the possibilities that that er ling ling ba brings. At the top of my list is improving my Chinese and traveling around the country a bit more - not necessarily in that order. Also seeing my old friends again for a big dinner in NYC next summer - I hope to make that a tradition. And finally, but always most importantly, seeing my family, who mostly live in Maine these days. And with that my thoughts drift off to snowy fields, pine trees, and fireplaces...
Happy Holidays,
Sean
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Friday, August 10, 2007
Shanghai Vignette
August, 2007
The downpour came suddenly, with a violence that reminded me I was living in a world with words like Monsoon and Typhoon. I wasn't close enough to home to make a dash for it, so I succumbed, letting the fat moonstone drops cover me, hitting me in the face. Within seconds I was soaked. My sturdy new sandals were useless and slippery as I tried to navigate the sudden puddles, the curbside rivers. In a moment of childhood glee I was tempted to take them off and run splashing on, but mindful of Shanghai street flotsam, I trudged on. At the corner of Xingye Lu a straw field workers hat flew by me as I saw a creeping taxi come to a grudging halt; an intrepid cyclist had literally blown onto the hood of his car. Through the headlights I watched as he tried to disentangle himself in the dark. It was three in the afternoon.
Soaked to a state of abandon, I pushed forward against the gale, at times stopped in my tracks by the force of it. At one point the wind suddenly changed tack and slammed into me from behind, almost knocking me over. Not so much scared as awestruck, I moved on, slowly making my way up Madang Lu towards home. The small boutiques along the road were carrying on business as if there weren't lost umbrellas hurtling by their windows, or birds momentarily flying backwards, but a few of the shopkeepers were pressed up against the glass watching the street spectacle. Then the lightning came in seismic synapses, white hot as it cracked down into the skyline's silhouette. Like Frankenstein's monster, the city was re-energized.
At the first sign of electricity in the air I ducked into a small crafts shop. The young, bespectacled girl behind the counter gave me a sympathetic smile as I shook myself down at the door. I left a large puddle on the floor but she just smiled, and motioned me with her hands to get inside and shut the door. As I perused the handmade trinkets, she explained that the shop was in fact the co-operative effort of a group of art students, and then said in her Shanghai way, 'Why don't you buy my jewelry?' I looked at it, and some of the pieces were very nice, but I was only waiting out a storm and we both knew it. After a few minutes of small talk the explosions after the flashes grew further and further apart, thudding in the lonely distance. And then just as suddenly as it started, the rain stopped. The storm had passed.
The downpour came suddenly, with a violence that reminded me I was living in a world with words like Monsoon and Typhoon. I wasn't close enough to home to make a dash for it, so I succumbed, letting the fat moonstone drops cover me, hitting me in the face. Within seconds I was soaked. My sturdy new sandals were useless and slippery as I tried to navigate the sudden puddles, the curbside rivers. In a moment of childhood glee I was tempted to take them off and run splashing on, but mindful of Shanghai street flotsam, I trudged on. At the corner of Xingye Lu a straw field workers hat flew by me as I saw a creeping taxi come to a grudging halt; an intrepid cyclist had literally blown onto the hood of his car. Through the headlights I watched as he tried to disentangle himself in the dark. It was three in the afternoon.
Soaked to a state of abandon, I pushed forward against the gale, at times stopped in my tracks by the force of it. At one point the wind suddenly changed tack and slammed into me from behind, almost knocking me over. Not so much scared as awestruck, I moved on, slowly making my way up Madang Lu towards home. The small boutiques along the road were carrying on business as if there weren't lost umbrellas hurtling by their windows, or birds momentarily flying backwards, but a few of the shopkeepers were pressed up against the glass watching the street spectacle. Then the lightning came in seismic synapses, white hot as it cracked down into the skyline's silhouette. Like Frankenstein's monster, the city was re-energized.
At the first sign of electricity in the air I ducked into a small crafts shop. The young, bespectacled girl behind the counter gave me a sympathetic smile as I shook myself down at the door. I left a large puddle on the floor but she just smiled, and motioned me with her hands to get inside and shut the door. As I perused the handmade trinkets, she explained that the shop was in fact the co-operative effort of a group of art students, and then said in her Shanghai way, 'Why don't you buy my jewelry?' I looked at it, and some of the pieces were very nice, but I was only waiting out a storm and we both knew it. After a few minutes of small talk the explosions after the flashes grew further and further apart, thudding in the lonely distance. And then just as suddenly as it started, the rain stopped. The storm had passed.
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
All the Tea in China
This is an older story that I wrote when I first moved to Shanghai in February 2006...
It’s snowing in Shanghai. Not a big snowfall, but enough of a shock to make me run out and buy a new fleece lined winter coat, sweater, and a hat. And to think I was lolling around by my pool in Bangkok only three days ago, complaining about the heat and dreaming about having seasons again. Well the sky is always greyer. So, now I’ve moved here to open a new night club, it’s colder than a witch’s tit, and I have to find an apartment. But I’m not complaining.
Currently I am staying right in the thick of things, in a globetrotting friend's small apartment on the corner of Nanchang Lu and Ruijin Lu. Lu, in case you haven’t had your coffee yet, is Chinese for street. I’m only a block away from Huaihai Lu, Shanghai’s version of Oxford Street, London, or stretches of Broadway in New York. It’s a wide avenue with blinking neon arches over the street (just in case you forgot you were in China) and no fewer than three Lacoste stores - one devoted solely to accessories. I’m not sure what those would be, but I’m guessing headbands and handbags, which we all need. It’s a bustling, hustling (“hello mista, you want bag-uh, watchee…lolex?”) little boulevard, originally erected by the French, and still retaining some lovely Art Deco architecture on either side. In fact, Huaihai Lu becomes ground zero of the old French Concession area of the city, and if you stray off along the tree-lined side streets you will find them to be neat, and for the most part architecturally intact. Never mind the laundry flapping outside the balconies, and draped from the branches of the august plane trees.
I’ve been apartment hunting around this area, literally high and low. You pretty much have two choices: old French architecture, or a new high rise. The place I’m staying in now is very much like a New York apartment. And by that I mean a lower Manhattan apartment: small, crowded, old, and bursting with flavor. Yesterday as I was coming into the wide open, unlocked building, an old lady was standing patiently by the entrance enjoying some late winter sun on her wrinkly red face; taking a breather before attempting the steps with her five plastic grocery bags. As I approached I smiled at her and she squinted at me evenly. I know from living in Chinatown in New York that people can be funny about accepting things without being able to return anything, so I hesitated, smiled, and then was about to head up when she started pointing to the bags on the ground and shouting (or it seemed like shouting) something. She pointed up the stairs and held up three fingers; OK, they go to the third floor. Being a good boy I picked them up and started up the stairs while she sat down there chuckling and catching her breath. What the hell, I’m new to the building, and as my friend told me: “China is all about relationships”.
So that’s one relationship I got going. Another one is with Hanson Chu, the young go-getter at the Starbuck’s down at the end of my block, who loves flexing his English skills with me. “Goodamorning Mista Chon, how are a you a doing today?” Bless him, he’s very efficient too; starts firing up that large Americano with steamed milk as soon as he sees me walking in. “You a will have-a-cinnamon a bun today make-a warm?”
I will indeed. Hanson has a wiry little frame and sharp features, accentuated by black rimmed glasses and a Rubber Soul era Lennonesque mop of pitch black hair. He seems to always have a smile curling at the corners of his mouth, which makes me want to joke with him. But it must only be a physical feature, because like most Shanghaiese I’ve met, he’s serious as cancer. So the other day when I said, “Hanson, I think I’ll have the steak tar tar today, and a double mocha caramel frappuccino – extra whipped cream” (complete with facial broad take) he looked a bit panic stricken. “Accuse me sir?” He looked mortified – that he either didn’t understand me or didn’t know something on the menu. “It’s OK Hanson, I’m joking” I said. Blank stare. I smiled again to assuage his fears, “I was only making a joke” I repeated. Blank stares from all the staff behind the counter. Grasping at straws, I almost broke into Thai English (“I joking you”) but I guess he understood, because I got my regular order, but that was the end of the ribbing.
I’m also starting to fall in love with the English names that everyone, and I mean everyone has in Shanghai. A few months ago when I came here to visit for the first time, I stayed at the well intentioned Pacific Suites Hotel on Shaanxi Lu, where the front desk alone was enough to let me know that the Chinese are serious about their English prenoms. There was Victoria Lu in guest relations, Simon Lim was hooking up my internet connection, and Blakely Kwan (a guy) was on point, making sure I woke up on time each morning. But the cake-taker had to be my man Speed Guo at the front desk. That’s right, Speed; a most efficient young chap, and strictly business. At one point when I had a bit of trouble with my debit card (what do you mean it’s not reading my Thai debit card?!) he looked me square in the eye and said “Maybe you have no money”. Now normally I would have to take offense at such a statement (true or otherwise) but I knew he was just being Chinese and stating the entirely possible.
When I was DJ’ing in Hong Kong last year I read about a top fashion designer named, wait for it…Pacino Wan, and that’s been my favorite ever since. And that would probably be the end-all and be-all, except for the fact that we’ve been in the middle of interviewing staff, and last week a kid named Volcano applied for a bartending job. Volcano Ho. Amazingly he didn’t get hired. I would have hired him for the name alone. Oh, and a cheeky, be-quiffed young upstart named Frankie Chu came in for a waiter job and said he’d been living and working in Dublin recently. When he came back for the second interview he asked the Head Chef and GM, “What’s the crack boys?” He was hired, and last Friday I bumped into him on the street, and making small talk I asked what he was up to for the night. He answered that he was “going out for a few jars with the lads”. Why I oughtta…
I’m starting to have a very bad relationship with Shanghai drivers, who are like New York drivers on crystal meth. Since I’ve been here (two weeks) I’ve seen four accidents that resulted in fights, and at least five or six minor scuffles (no fisticuffs, just pushing and yelling). The general rule of the roads in Asia is ‘might is right’, and after living in India and Thailand I’ve gotten used to it. The bus takes precedence over the car, the car can run down the motorbike, which will take out a bicycle, and on down to you. But in those countries an accident is basically a time-out, and everybody stops to have a look, take sides, kibbutz, etc. If there’s a victim everyone helps out. But the other evening I was walking along the street when I heard a ‘thump’ and quick screech of tires followed by a crashing noise; sure enough a town car had hit a cyclist, sending him airborne fifteen feet, where he landed in the gutter against a phone booth, dazed. So what did the guy in the car do? He got out, looked at the front of his car to assess damage, and proceeded to go over and start yelling at the cyclist, winding up for a kick, when the poor guy on the ground let out a pathetic groan and he held back (no doubt weighing the potential headache if the guy bought it then and there). But he continued to stand there waving his finger at the unfortunate fellow, pouring out a constant stream of abuse. No trying to see if he was all right, no sympathy, no concern for anything other than his car. Luckily a cop showed up at that moment and got in between them. And still the driver was screaming at the downed cyclist, who by now was sitting up trying to piece together his broken glasses and wiping blood off his face. The cop was literally holding the driver back as he made all the usual “Hold me back” motions like he still wanted a piece of him. I don’t know how it ended up but I could hear the guy yelling two blocks away as I walked home.
Well, if Shanghai drivers are something less than simpatico, that’s nothing compared to the everyday hurly-burly of people in the streets, shops, restaurants, movies - every where really. Lest we forget China is a country of 1.3 billion people, and at least 26 million of them are in Shanghai, so it’s kinda every man for himself really. Every woman too. On my second day in town I stopped at a local bakery to hook up the morning victuals, and as it was full of mostly old ladies buying bread and cakes I waited for them to be served first. I waited patiently, taking in the smell of freshly baked bread and watching the mad yelling of the ladies, who were in fact merely talking to each other in Shanghaiese volume. And I waited. And kept waiting some more, noticing that the line didn’t seem to be moving. Then I felt a nudge, and a hunched over, grey haired octogenarian was squeezing determinedly between me and the counter with a bag of croissants. She never looked at me or said anything, but just kept her head down and burrowed on until she got past me in the queue. Another lady, this one with a chubby brown face and a big box of pastries, got next to me and then (quite deftly) wedged her way under my arm until she was also in front of me; and then put her box up over the shorter lady in front of her and onto the counter, yelling at the cashier to ring her up (I assume). And there I was, mouth agape and taking it all in - and while I did that two more ladies pushed past me, the second actually head butting me from behind, which I’m sure was unintentional. It took me a minute or two, and then I got all hot under the collar, muttering “excuse me!” to absolutely no one, as I’m sure no one in the room spoke any English. And with no alternative, I finally got into the spirit of things and threw a few elbows (which cleared a path) and a head feint and I was in; just me and the cashier face to face, with a roiling sea of grannies pushing up behind me. And I’m thinking: I’m gonna have to do this every day?
Speaking of aunties, I had my first encounter with a Chinese ayi today. Ayi’s are cleaning ladies, and everyone has one. They practically come with the apartment in Shanghai. Rob’s ayi (literally “Auntie”) comes on Wednesdays, which I’d forgotten, and around 11 a.m. this morning, as I was sitting at the computer in all my glory (yesterday’s boxers, socks, and not much else) I heard a click at the door and then the jingling of keys. It took me a moment to register who it might be, as no one else has keys. But it was too late; just as I remembered about the ayi and thought to make a mad dash into the bathroom; she was already inside, looking at me and smiling. Laughing actually, and saying “Nihao!” Um, Hello to you too Ayi…but meanwhile I’m sitting there in my mohair body armor. But she couldn’t have cared less, and just started tidying up and chattering away in some undecipherable dialect. Unfortunately she started cleaning the bathroom first, so my shower was out. I took this opportunity to quickly throw a shirt on and turn off the computer. Eventually I got in there and had a shower as she quickly tidied up, did a load of laundry, made the bed, and asked (through a combination of Chinese, English, and charades) if I had any shopping to do or bills she needed me to go pay. You go girl. And I’ll tell you something else about Rob’s ayi; keep it under your hat, but (to my horror) she’s definitely younger than me. I wonder what the Chinese word for cousin is?
Finally, on the advice of a few friends who live here I decided to check out the antiques market last Sunday, thinking I might score a cool coffee table or hat stand for my new place – once I get one that is. So I headed out around noon and decided to walk, as the first hint of spring was wooing the dingy window panes, throwing heat and light into the apartment. But spring can be a dishonest lover, and foolishly I ventured out with only a very stylish, but light windbreaker on. The first few blocks down the absolutely rammed Huaihai Lu were fine, but then the March wind kicked in and I realized that, among other things, I could use a hat. Stubbornly I plowed on, and adding to my misery was the teeming mob of Sunday shoppers, idlers, and incessantly honking drivers. It was Bakery Shop II, the sequel. I was getting pushed, pulled, nudged, and stepped on (in the form of a few from-behind ‘flat tires’) from every direction, and no one seemed to take any notice of it. No “excuse me” or “sorry” or anything…just head down and keep on keepin’ on.
So I picked up the pace (when in Rome) which had the added benefit of warming me up a bit. But I was having some private, burning resentments, I can tell you. I started to see not happy, laughing people out enjoying a false spring day; not happy go lucky school kids racing around playing keep away with a stolen cap; not dawdling couples window shopping, no! I saw pushy, me-first, rude Shanghaiese – and suddenly I became belligerent myself. I got ‘New York’ on ‘em, and in a New York minute, taking pleasure in leaning a bit into a much shorter man as I passed him, not so much as a “sorry” escaping from my lips. I kept my elbows right where they were and sure enough, the big guy in the black leather jacket with grey zipper sweater (Chinese middle class urban uniform) ran right into it. Oops. But if I was looking for confrontation (and I’m not sure I was) I wouldn’t get it. Everyone just kept on trudging along, as if they hadn’t just taken one in the bread basket. That was almost more maddening.
By the time I finally got to Dong Tai Lu I was in a state. I was cold, harried, and agitated. The last thing I wanted to do was get into some bargaining Olympics with a bunch of chiseling knock-off antiques dealers. I’d been forewarned of their notoriously conniving ways, and had steeled myself for battle, even if it is all merely theatre in the end. But just then I was in no mood. I cautiously (hands clasped behind back, sunglasses on, bored expression) perused the various stalls that line both sides of the street, not wanting to commit to anything. I knew that a mere step into any stall would prompt the beginnings of the ‘Asian hard sell’. I saw a funky little red painted table that caught my eye, and when I asked how much it was the old lady quoted such a ridiculous price that I decided to fix her wagon and not even bargain. As I walked away she was yelling “How much-uh?” over and over, astonished that I wouldn’t even play the game a little. I just wasn’t in the mood.
Further down the lane, almost at the end, I noticed a well-lit, clean looking little tea shop with no one inside. It suddenly occurred to me that I had been living in China for over a week and hadn’t bought any tea yet. Worse, I had been drinking some inferior Sri Lankan stuff (with milk no less) that I found at the City Market, which caters almost entirely to westerners. This struck me as somehow absurd, and so I decided to go buy some tea for the house. When I walked into this shop I was first struck by its mellow atmosphere, quite a contrast to the mad shouting and bargaining outside. At first glance it seemed like there was no one there, but the door was open, and then a very calm little man came out from the back, where he obviously was living. He asked me in pretty good English how I was, and it was so nice to hear something other than a hustle that I instantly loved him and his warm little shop. Then his wife came out with their new baby, and she brought him over so I could have a look. It was so simple and friendly that my former mood melted away and I found myself playing with the baby, and in fact it was a very cute kid. But all Chinese babies look cute to me, I must admit. Anyway, I asked if he had any Oolong tea, and he smiled and proceeded to tell me a bit about Oolong tea, the grades he had, and then elaborately prepare four different kinds of Oolong for me. If you’ve never done the Chinese tea ceremony, it’s really lovely, and you can see how important tea is to the culture; how lovingly they treat it. First he let me smell the fresh tea, then he put it into a very small ceramic pot that had been pre-rinsed with scalding hot water. Then the tea went in, and then more boiling water until it was full. Then the lid went on and more hot water poured on top of that. The first pot was poured out entirely, over various ceramic figures representing the animals of the Chinese zodiac. Then it was re-filled and left to steep for half a minute or so. Only now did he pour out a tiny cupful for me, and this first grade had the aroma of flowers and smelled heavenly, but the taste wasn’t sweet or flowery at all, and indeed had a nice kick to it. He repeated this three more times with different types of Oolong, and then again with some green tea and a nice black tea that had no name, according to my host.
In the end I bought the floral Oolong, some green tea, and a bit of the no-name black. All of it wrapped tight and packaged in very nice silk pattern boxes. He even threw in some jasmine tea for me to try for free. On the wall was a menu of the teas he had and at the bottom it read: ‘Dear customer, if you need the more tea you can call me and I will deliver to you house, the charge is not more. If you not satisfied with tea goods you can exchange or no pay’.
And you know I will. Talk about attitude readjustment, I walked out of there with my faith in humanity firmly restored. Suddenly nothing bothered me, and I looked on with amusement at a French guy trying to buy a porcelain pitcher by an elaborate series of ‘final’ walkings away, only to come back and punch a new ‘final’ number into the shopkeeper’s calculator. Indeed, a scuffling crowd of people pushing in past me to buy some freshly cut pineapple seemed quaint and even picturesque. I plowed in and bought one myself.
As the sun went down I hopped in a cab and confidently proclaimed my address (just about all I know how to say in Chinese so far) and to my utter surprise the driver understood me on the first go. Things were looking up. We stopped at a red light and I looked up at the street lights swaying in the chilly March breeze, framed by a silhouette of crooked Shanghai tree branches. I suddenly was back in a scene from my youth, on a street very much like this one; somber, tree-lined, and windy. It was so familiar, and I dreamily tried to place it until I pinched myself and realized I was in China. Then the lights changed and as I stared through the branches at the lights I knew I had seen it before. It’s a very small world after all.
It’s snowing in Shanghai. Not a big snowfall, but enough of a shock to make me run out and buy a new fleece lined winter coat, sweater, and a hat. And to think I was lolling around by my pool in Bangkok only three days ago, complaining about the heat and dreaming about having seasons again. Well the sky is always greyer. So, now I’ve moved here to open a new night club, it’s colder than a witch’s tit, and I have to find an apartment. But I’m not complaining.
Currently I am staying right in the thick of things, in a globetrotting friend's small apartment on the corner of Nanchang Lu and Ruijin Lu. Lu, in case you haven’t had your coffee yet, is Chinese for street. I’m only a block away from Huaihai Lu, Shanghai’s version of Oxford Street, London, or stretches of Broadway in New York. It’s a wide avenue with blinking neon arches over the street (just in case you forgot you were in China) and no fewer than three Lacoste stores - one devoted solely to accessories. I’m not sure what those would be, but I’m guessing headbands and handbags, which we all need. It’s a bustling, hustling (“hello mista, you want bag-uh, watchee…lolex?”) little boulevard, originally erected by the French, and still retaining some lovely Art Deco architecture on either side. In fact, Huaihai Lu becomes ground zero of the old French Concession area of the city, and if you stray off along the tree-lined side streets you will find them to be neat, and for the most part architecturally intact. Never mind the laundry flapping outside the balconies, and draped from the branches of the august plane trees.
I’ve been apartment hunting around this area, literally high and low. You pretty much have two choices: old French architecture, or a new high rise. The place I’m staying in now is very much like a New York apartment. And by that I mean a lower Manhattan apartment: small, crowded, old, and bursting with flavor. Yesterday as I was coming into the wide open, unlocked building, an old lady was standing patiently by the entrance enjoying some late winter sun on her wrinkly red face; taking a breather before attempting the steps with her five plastic grocery bags. As I approached I smiled at her and she squinted at me evenly. I know from living in Chinatown in New York that people can be funny about accepting things without being able to return anything, so I hesitated, smiled, and then was about to head up when she started pointing to the bags on the ground and shouting (or it seemed like shouting) something. She pointed up the stairs and held up three fingers; OK, they go to the third floor. Being a good boy I picked them up and started up the stairs while she sat down there chuckling and catching her breath. What the hell, I’m new to the building, and as my friend told me: “China is all about relationships”.
So that’s one relationship I got going. Another one is with Hanson Chu, the young go-getter at the Starbuck’s down at the end of my block, who loves flexing his English skills with me. “Goodamorning Mista Chon, how are a you a doing today?” Bless him, he’s very efficient too; starts firing up that large Americano with steamed milk as soon as he sees me walking in. “You a will have-a-cinnamon a bun today make-a warm?”
I will indeed. Hanson has a wiry little frame and sharp features, accentuated by black rimmed glasses and a Rubber Soul era Lennonesque mop of pitch black hair. He seems to always have a smile curling at the corners of his mouth, which makes me want to joke with him. But it must only be a physical feature, because like most Shanghaiese I’ve met, he’s serious as cancer. So the other day when I said, “Hanson, I think I’ll have the steak tar tar today, and a double mocha caramel frappuccino – extra whipped cream” (complete with facial broad take) he looked a bit panic stricken. “Accuse me sir?” He looked mortified – that he either didn’t understand me or didn’t know something on the menu. “It’s OK Hanson, I’m joking” I said. Blank stare. I smiled again to assuage his fears, “I was only making a joke” I repeated. Blank stares from all the staff behind the counter. Grasping at straws, I almost broke into Thai English (“I joking you”) but I guess he understood, because I got my regular order, but that was the end of the ribbing.
I’m also starting to fall in love with the English names that everyone, and I mean everyone has in Shanghai. A few months ago when I came here to visit for the first time, I stayed at the well intentioned Pacific Suites Hotel on Shaanxi Lu, where the front desk alone was enough to let me know that the Chinese are serious about their English prenoms. There was Victoria Lu in guest relations, Simon Lim was hooking up my internet connection, and Blakely Kwan (a guy) was on point, making sure I woke up on time each morning. But the cake-taker had to be my man Speed Guo at the front desk. That’s right, Speed; a most efficient young chap, and strictly business. At one point when I had a bit of trouble with my debit card (what do you mean it’s not reading my Thai debit card?!) he looked me square in the eye and said “Maybe you have no money”. Now normally I would have to take offense at such a statement (true or otherwise) but I knew he was just being Chinese and stating the entirely possible.
When I was DJ’ing in Hong Kong last year I read about a top fashion designer named, wait for it…Pacino Wan, and that’s been my favorite ever since. And that would probably be the end-all and be-all, except for the fact that we’ve been in the middle of interviewing staff, and last week a kid named Volcano applied for a bartending job. Volcano Ho. Amazingly he didn’t get hired. I would have hired him for the name alone. Oh, and a cheeky, be-quiffed young upstart named Frankie Chu came in for a waiter job and said he’d been living and working in Dublin recently. When he came back for the second interview he asked the Head Chef and GM, “What’s the crack boys?” He was hired, and last Friday I bumped into him on the street, and making small talk I asked what he was up to for the night. He answered that he was “going out for a few jars with the lads”. Why I oughtta…
I’m starting to have a very bad relationship with Shanghai drivers, who are like New York drivers on crystal meth. Since I’ve been here (two weeks) I’ve seen four accidents that resulted in fights, and at least five or six minor scuffles (no fisticuffs, just pushing and yelling). The general rule of the roads in Asia is ‘might is right’, and after living in India and Thailand I’ve gotten used to it. The bus takes precedence over the car, the car can run down the motorbike, which will take out a bicycle, and on down to you. But in those countries an accident is basically a time-out, and everybody stops to have a look, take sides, kibbutz, etc. If there’s a victim everyone helps out. But the other evening I was walking along the street when I heard a ‘thump’ and quick screech of tires followed by a crashing noise; sure enough a town car had hit a cyclist, sending him airborne fifteen feet, where he landed in the gutter against a phone booth, dazed. So what did the guy in the car do? He got out, looked at the front of his car to assess damage, and proceeded to go over and start yelling at the cyclist, winding up for a kick, when the poor guy on the ground let out a pathetic groan and he held back (no doubt weighing the potential headache if the guy bought it then and there). But he continued to stand there waving his finger at the unfortunate fellow, pouring out a constant stream of abuse. No trying to see if he was all right, no sympathy, no concern for anything other than his car. Luckily a cop showed up at that moment and got in between them. And still the driver was screaming at the downed cyclist, who by now was sitting up trying to piece together his broken glasses and wiping blood off his face. The cop was literally holding the driver back as he made all the usual “Hold me back” motions like he still wanted a piece of him. I don’t know how it ended up but I could hear the guy yelling two blocks away as I walked home.
Well, if Shanghai drivers are something less than simpatico, that’s nothing compared to the everyday hurly-burly of people in the streets, shops, restaurants, movies - every where really. Lest we forget China is a country of 1.3 billion people, and at least 26 million of them are in Shanghai, so it’s kinda every man for himself really. Every woman too. On my second day in town I stopped at a local bakery to hook up the morning victuals, and as it was full of mostly old ladies buying bread and cakes I waited for them to be served first. I waited patiently, taking in the smell of freshly baked bread and watching the mad yelling of the ladies, who were in fact merely talking to each other in Shanghaiese volume. And I waited. And kept waiting some more, noticing that the line didn’t seem to be moving. Then I felt a nudge, and a hunched over, grey haired octogenarian was squeezing determinedly between me and the counter with a bag of croissants. She never looked at me or said anything, but just kept her head down and burrowed on until she got past me in the queue. Another lady, this one with a chubby brown face and a big box of pastries, got next to me and then (quite deftly) wedged her way under my arm until she was also in front of me; and then put her box up over the shorter lady in front of her and onto the counter, yelling at the cashier to ring her up (I assume). And there I was, mouth agape and taking it all in - and while I did that two more ladies pushed past me, the second actually head butting me from behind, which I’m sure was unintentional. It took me a minute or two, and then I got all hot under the collar, muttering “excuse me!” to absolutely no one, as I’m sure no one in the room spoke any English. And with no alternative, I finally got into the spirit of things and threw a few elbows (which cleared a path) and a head feint and I was in; just me and the cashier face to face, with a roiling sea of grannies pushing up behind me. And I’m thinking: I’m gonna have to do this every day?
Speaking of aunties, I had my first encounter with a Chinese ayi today. Ayi’s are cleaning ladies, and everyone has one. They practically come with the apartment in Shanghai. Rob’s ayi (literally “Auntie”) comes on Wednesdays, which I’d forgotten, and around 11 a.m. this morning, as I was sitting at the computer in all my glory (yesterday’s boxers, socks, and not much else) I heard a click at the door and then the jingling of keys. It took me a moment to register who it might be, as no one else has keys. But it was too late; just as I remembered about the ayi and thought to make a mad dash into the bathroom; she was already inside, looking at me and smiling. Laughing actually, and saying “Nihao!” Um, Hello to you too Ayi…but meanwhile I’m sitting there in my mohair body armor. But she couldn’t have cared less, and just started tidying up and chattering away in some undecipherable dialect. Unfortunately she started cleaning the bathroom first, so my shower was out. I took this opportunity to quickly throw a shirt on and turn off the computer. Eventually I got in there and had a shower as she quickly tidied up, did a load of laundry, made the bed, and asked (through a combination of Chinese, English, and charades) if I had any shopping to do or bills she needed me to go pay. You go girl. And I’ll tell you something else about Rob’s ayi; keep it under your hat, but (to my horror) she’s definitely younger than me. I wonder what the Chinese word for cousin is?
Finally, on the advice of a few friends who live here I decided to check out the antiques market last Sunday, thinking I might score a cool coffee table or hat stand for my new place – once I get one that is. So I headed out around noon and decided to walk, as the first hint of spring was wooing the dingy window panes, throwing heat and light into the apartment. But spring can be a dishonest lover, and foolishly I ventured out with only a very stylish, but light windbreaker on. The first few blocks down the absolutely rammed Huaihai Lu were fine, but then the March wind kicked in and I realized that, among other things, I could use a hat. Stubbornly I plowed on, and adding to my misery was the teeming mob of Sunday shoppers, idlers, and incessantly honking drivers. It was Bakery Shop II, the sequel. I was getting pushed, pulled, nudged, and stepped on (in the form of a few from-behind ‘flat tires’) from every direction, and no one seemed to take any notice of it. No “excuse me” or “sorry” or anything…just head down and keep on keepin’ on.
So I picked up the pace (when in Rome) which had the added benefit of warming me up a bit. But I was having some private, burning resentments, I can tell you. I started to see not happy, laughing people out enjoying a false spring day; not happy go lucky school kids racing around playing keep away with a stolen cap; not dawdling couples window shopping, no! I saw pushy, me-first, rude Shanghaiese – and suddenly I became belligerent myself. I got ‘New York’ on ‘em, and in a New York minute, taking pleasure in leaning a bit into a much shorter man as I passed him, not so much as a “sorry” escaping from my lips. I kept my elbows right where they were and sure enough, the big guy in the black leather jacket with grey zipper sweater (Chinese middle class urban uniform) ran right into it. Oops. But if I was looking for confrontation (and I’m not sure I was) I wouldn’t get it. Everyone just kept on trudging along, as if they hadn’t just taken one in the bread basket. That was almost more maddening.
By the time I finally got to Dong Tai Lu I was in a state. I was cold, harried, and agitated. The last thing I wanted to do was get into some bargaining Olympics with a bunch of chiseling knock-off antiques dealers. I’d been forewarned of their notoriously conniving ways, and had steeled myself for battle, even if it is all merely theatre in the end. But just then I was in no mood. I cautiously (hands clasped behind back, sunglasses on, bored expression) perused the various stalls that line both sides of the street, not wanting to commit to anything. I knew that a mere step into any stall would prompt the beginnings of the ‘Asian hard sell’. I saw a funky little red painted table that caught my eye, and when I asked how much it was the old lady quoted such a ridiculous price that I decided to fix her wagon and not even bargain. As I walked away she was yelling “How much-uh?” over and over, astonished that I wouldn’t even play the game a little. I just wasn’t in the mood.
Further down the lane, almost at the end, I noticed a well-lit, clean looking little tea shop with no one inside. It suddenly occurred to me that I had been living in China for over a week and hadn’t bought any tea yet. Worse, I had been drinking some inferior Sri Lankan stuff (with milk no less) that I found at the City Market, which caters almost entirely to westerners. This struck me as somehow absurd, and so I decided to go buy some tea for the house. When I walked into this shop I was first struck by its mellow atmosphere, quite a contrast to the mad shouting and bargaining outside. At first glance it seemed like there was no one there, but the door was open, and then a very calm little man came out from the back, where he obviously was living. He asked me in pretty good English how I was, and it was so nice to hear something other than a hustle that I instantly loved him and his warm little shop. Then his wife came out with their new baby, and she brought him over so I could have a look. It was so simple and friendly that my former mood melted away and I found myself playing with the baby, and in fact it was a very cute kid. But all Chinese babies look cute to me, I must admit. Anyway, I asked if he had any Oolong tea, and he smiled and proceeded to tell me a bit about Oolong tea, the grades he had, and then elaborately prepare four different kinds of Oolong for me. If you’ve never done the Chinese tea ceremony, it’s really lovely, and you can see how important tea is to the culture; how lovingly they treat it. First he let me smell the fresh tea, then he put it into a very small ceramic pot that had been pre-rinsed with scalding hot water. Then the tea went in, and then more boiling water until it was full. Then the lid went on and more hot water poured on top of that. The first pot was poured out entirely, over various ceramic figures representing the animals of the Chinese zodiac. Then it was re-filled and left to steep for half a minute or so. Only now did he pour out a tiny cupful for me, and this first grade had the aroma of flowers and smelled heavenly, but the taste wasn’t sweet or flowery at all, and indeed had a nice kick to it. He repeated this three more times with different types of Oolong, and then again with some green tea and a nice black tea that had no name, according to my host.
In the end I bought the floral Oolong, some green tea, and a bit of the no-name black. All of it wrapped tight and packaged in very nice silk pattern boxes. He even threw in some jasmine tea for me to try for free. On the wall was a menu of the teas he had and at the bottom it read: ‘Dear customer, if you need the more tea you can call me and I will deliver to you house, the charge is not more. If you not satisfied with tea goods you can exchange or no pay’.
And you know I will. Talk about attitude readjustment, I walked out of there with my faith in humanity firmly restored. Suddenly nothing bothered me, and I looked on with amusement at a French guy trying to buy a porcelain pitcher by an elaborate series of ‘final’ walkings away, only to come back and punch a new ‘final’ number into the shopkeeper’s calculator. Indeed, a scuffling crowd of people pushing in past me to buy some freshly cut pineapple seemed quaint and even picturesque. I plowed in and bought one myself.
As the sun went down I hopped in a cab and confidently proclaimed my address (just about all I know how to say in Chinese so far) and to my utter surprise the driver understood me on the first go. Things were looking up. We stopped at a red light and I looked up at the street lights swaying in the chilly March breeze, framed by a silhouette of crooked Shanghai tree branches. I suddenly was back in a scene from my youth, on a street very much like this one; somber, tree-lined, and windy. It was so familiar, and I dreamily tried to place it until I pinched myself and realized I was in China. Then the lights changed and as I stared through the branches at the lights I knew I had seen it before. It’s a very small world after all.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
An Old lady in Shamian
The late afternoon sun had just broken through the crumpled rag of clouds that hung over the Pearl River, sending shattered light through the leaves of the banyan trees. It had just rained biblically for half an hour, cooling everything off, and now just as suddenly the sun beat down on the rooftops and steaming walkways. From where I sat on the veranda of the cafe I could see a small, crooked Chinese woman collecting trash. She used a stick with a nail at the end of it, and was slowly, methodically going through the public bins, leaving nothing unchecked; and nothing spilled in her wake. Given her line of work, she struck me as a very neat and meticulous old woman.
With the change of weather came a lovely breeze creeping through the mossy lanes of Shamian Island, barely rustling the leaves of the large cinnamon trees near me. The old lady stood upright momentarily and adjusted the faded red scarf that fastened the straw fisherman's hat to her head with a knot below her leathery chin. She looked up, and with a quickness that belied her age, produced a threadbare jade cardigan and quickly buttoned it up to her neck. Her pants were blue checked and ended at her ankles, where she wore very white socks and small black Mao slippers. She was a clean old woman, and oddly fashionable in her way.
As I sipped my tea and wrote postcards I couldn't help looking up from time to time to watch her progress. Up and down the unkempt rows of the pedestrian mall she went, discovering a bit of food here, a half full juice carton there. Looking up, she would neatly wrap her findings in old newspaper or cellophane and place them carefully in a patterned burlap bag. Finally when she was just opposite my cafe, she took a seat on one of the marble benches beneath a great banyan tree, hanging the bag over one of its crazy tri-pod branches. She proceeded to unwrap a banana and eat it slowly, washing it down with an oft-used plastic bottle of water. No movement was wasted, and nothing spilled. Her motions were elegant and poised. When she finished eating she daintily dabbed at the corners of her small, straight mouth before putting everything away. Closing my notebook, I left a few coins on the table and walked over to where she was still sitting. I had noticed a small sign nailed to the trunk of the tree, and decided to get a closer look at it, and at her. I approached the bench where the old lady sat, looking up at the tree the whole time. From behind my sunglasses I saw the sign was the banyan's Latin name, Ficus Microcarpa. I also cast a sideways glance at her, and was wondering what, if anything I would say when she looked right at me and asked, in perfect English, 'Are you by chance an Englishman?' Her English was impeccable, but with that particular Cantonese accent that you find in Guangzhou and Hong Kong. Surprised, I replied that I was in fact American. She seemed slightly deflated by this news, and continued in her flawless way to explain to me that she liked to talk to English people particularly, as she found their accents to be lovely. She further lamented the lack of opportunity to practice her French, but was happy to speak English with me anyway. There was nothing left to do but sit down and have a chat with this slender, lively woman.
Among the many things she told me over the next half hour or so were these: She was the widow of a former compradore (go-between) of a large Canton British trading firm. She had gone to the Shamian normal school for Chinese and Indian staff, where she had studied English, French, and German (but the German she had mostly forgotten now). She was eighty one years old. She had once lived in one of the imposing, thick columned buildings that she now collected trash around, and despaired that many of them had been turned into official party offices. I shared in her sense of sadness over this point, as quite a few of the lovely old facades had been defiled with ugly glass and industrial tile.
As she spoke I noticed that she would surreptitiously tug at a few rogue white hairs that sprung out of her pointed chin. She also had the habit of pushing her white hair back behind her ear when she laughed, constantly patting it down and under the red scarf she had holding her hair in place. Her habits were those of a European lady from the last century, down to the smallest detail, and every bit as feminine. In fact she reminded me of my own grandmother. I came to realise that I was talking to a great lady of a western tradition that is fast disappearing; separated by oceans, but nonetheless European in almost every aspect.
Looking up at the clear early evening sky through the kaleidoscope of over-arching branches, I tried to imagine her world here in 1949, before everything changed. She must have lived very well. Compradores were some of the wealthiest Chinese in places like Canton, Shanghai, and Hong Kong. I wondered where she slept now, but I never asked and she didn't say. Realising that I had a train to catch, I got up and felt a wave of melancholy. I didn't want to go. She caught my mood and laughed. 'You Americans are very sensitive' she said. I smiled and got up to leave, and then she added, 'But very optimistic!'
You know, she's not half wrong either, at least in my case. I walked away from her with a feeling I often get when I meet people in disparate places - that I've met them before, somewhere else. Quite possibly not in this lifetime.
With the change of weather came a lovely breeze creeping through the mossy lanes of Shamian Island, barely rustling the leaves of the large cinnamon trees near me. The old lady stood upright momentarily and adjusted the faded red scarf that fastened the straw fisherman's hat to her head with a knot below her leathery chin. She looked up, and with a quickness that belied her age, produced a threadbare jade cardigan and quickly buttoned it up to her neck. Her pants were blue checked and ended at her ankles, where she wore very white socks and small black Mao slippers. She was a clean old woman, and oddly fashionable in her way.
As I sipped my tea and wrote postcards I couldn't help looking up from time to time to watch her progress. Up and down the unkempt rows of the pedestrian mall she went, discovering a bit of food here, a half full juice carton there. Looking up, she would neatly wrap her findings in old newspaper or cellophane and place them carefully in a patterned burlap bag. Finally when she was just opposite my cafe, she took a seat on one of the marble benches beneath a great banyan tree, hanging the bag over one of its crazy tri-pod branches. She proceeded to unwrap a banana and eat it slowly, washing it down with an oft-used plastic bottle of water. No movement was wasted, and nothing spilled. Her motions were elegant and poised. When she finished eating she daintily dabbed at the corners of her small, straight mouth before putting everything away. Closing my notebook, I left a few coins on the table and walked over to where she was still sitting. I had noticed a small sign nailed to the trunk of the tree, and decided to get a closer look at it, and at her. I approached the bench where the old lady sat, looking up at the tree the whole time. From behind my sunglasses I saw the sign was the banyan's Latin name, Ficus Microcarpa. I also cast a sideways glance at her, and was wondering what, if anything I would say when she looked right at me and asked, in perfect English, 'Are you by chance an Englishman?' Her English was impeccable, but with that particular Cantonese accent that you find in Guangzhou and Hong Kong. Surprised, I replied that I was in fact American. She seemed slightly deflated by this news, and continued in her flawless way to explain to me that she liked to talk to English people particularly, as she found their accents to be lovely. She further lamented the lack of opportunity to practice her French, but was happy to speak English with me anyway. There was nothing left to do but sit down and have a chat with this slender, lively woman.
Among the many things she told me over the next half hour or so were these: She was the widow of a former compradore (go-between) of a large Canton British trading firm. She had gone to the Shamian normal school for Chinese and Indian staff, where she had studied English, French, and German (but the German she had mostly forgotten now). She was eighty one years old. She had once lived in one of the imposing, thick columned buildings that she now collected trash around, and despaired that many of them had been turned into official party offices. I shared in her sense of sadness over this point, as quite a few of the lovely old facades had been defiled with ugly glass and industrial tile.
As she spoke I noticed that she would surreptitiously tug at a few rogue white hairs that sprung out of her pointed chin. She also had the habit of pushing her white hair back behind her ear when she laughed, constantly patting it down and under the red scarf she had holding her hair in place. Her habits were those of a European lady from the last century, down to the smallest detail, and every bit as feminine. In fact she reminded me of my own grandmother. I came to realise that I was talking to a great lady of a western tradition that is fast disappearing; separated by oceans, but nonetheless European in almost every aspect.
Looking up at the clear early evening sky through the kaleidoscope of over-arching branches, I tried to imagine her world here in 1949, before everything changed. She must have lived very well. Compradores were some of the wealthiest Chinese in places like Canton, Shanghai, and Hong Kong. I wondered where she slept now, but I never asked and she didn't say. Realising that I had a train to catch, I got up and felt a wave of melancholy. I didn't want to go. She caught my mood and laughed. 'You Americans are very sensitive' she said. I smiled and got up to leave, and then she added, 'But very optimistic!'
You know, she's not half wrong either, at least in my case. I walked away from her with a feeling I often get when I meet people in disparate places - that I've met them before, somewhere else. Quite possibly not in this lifetime.
Friday, April 13, 2007
This Hungry Season
After dinner this evening I decided to walk off some of the rich, spicy Japanese curry I had just gorged on. There is nothing like a good walk after a big meal, especially on a new Spring night. I walked slowly, deciding to cut through Fuxing Park, with its reluctant palms still wrapped in winter's rope. Everywhere were lovers and friends, young and old, walking, sitting, and cycling in their way. The park's leafy paths were a murmuring shadow world of secrets. Intoxicated by all this rebound and rebirth, I strayed further than I wanted and got lost in the maze of walkways, finally finding myself on handsome Sinan Lu. Not caring in the least, I continued along this august corridor of plane trees, with their twisting camouflage trunks. The walking felt wonderful, and I suddenly wanted a coffee. I decided to double back and stop in at Figaro Cafe, hoping to grab a day old copy of The Herald Tribune while I was at it.
I don't know why I was so hungry tonight. Perhaps it was the weather. The past few days have been sun steeped and almost hot. The nights are trickier, as the damp winds blow through the old streets and make you reconsider that slim jacket, stylish though it may be. I decided to sit outside at the cafe and watch the people go by. There is never any shortage of people to look at in Shanghai. Slowly sipping the strong coffee, I perused the front page of the 'Mei guo bao' (American paper) and quickly decided it was too lovely a night to worry about the insanity of our times. I quickly read Doonesbury on the back page, and with a smile curling my lips I folded it up and put it into my bag.
The young Filipino waiter came out and started folding up the umbrellas and chairs, thoughtfully saving mine for last. A few lights went out inside and I found myself in near darkness. A car pulled into the space right in front of me and a busy little woman got out to inspect her parallel parking job - not a good one. But she seemed satisfied, and I quickly thought of a story someone told me about buying licenses and not having to take the test if you could afford it. Just then the meter maid appeared out of nowhere, amazingly still on the job.
'Do xiao chien?' Asked the small, lively woman. How much? The woman looked suspiciously at the meter maid, understandably unhappy that there was someone out collecting money at that time of night. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just past ten o'clock.
As the last lights of the cafe went out I crossed the road and turned the corner onto Danshui Lu. Within moments I had been nearly sideswiped by a junk collector's overburdened three wheeler - on the sidewalk naturally. As he pedalled by he spat the stub of his cigarette out, cleared his throat, and spat - not at me, or even near me, but close enough to let me know he'd seen me. His look told me he knew what his lot in life was, and exactly how much he could get away with. I chuckled out loud, letting him know I also knew. In this situation, no matter what anger I may display I am always ultimately simpatico.
As I crossed Zizhong Lu the life of the street instantly took on a new urgency. Add a few people and a street can become a neighborhood just like that. The owner of the shabby little restaurant near the corner was sweeping out the day's crusts and crumbs into the gutter. Across the road the old ladies were in their battered chairs in front of the corner store, like so many sentries. Just next to them a woman came out of the closed up tobacco shop; peeking in I could see that the regular card game had moved inside. She was wearing a pair of red flannel pajamas with a pattern of small teddy bears, a pink cardigan sweater, and house slippers. Noticing that I was peering into the sanctuary of their game, she quickly coughed, spat, and turned back to the gambling. Not a movement was wasted, and everything had a meaning.
About halfway up the block I started to realise that it was indeed chilly, and was thankful for the close proximity to my own building. All the shops along Danshui Lu were closing up for the night and throwing anything and everything out into the street for the sweepers to pick up later. Outside of the biggest fruiterer's shop I saw a fat calico cat rubbing up against a disused wooden crate - looking like it couldn't make its mind up whether to stay in or out for the night. A few steps later something caught my eye among the refuse of the gutter. It was a small dead cat - not much more than a kitten - and was in an awkward pose, as if it were prancing along a back alley fence, but frozen in time. It's orange fur was dirty and caked against its scrawny frame.
Just then I heard some rambunctious voices behind me, and heard a loud slap followed by hearty laughter. As the shadows caught up with me I was suddenly abreast of three teenagers in the full swing of happy camaraderie. One of them had obviously just clapped his friend just a little too hard on the back and they were rough housing. As they passed me they kept looking back over their shoulders, telling me instantly that they had been running gags and being rowdy all along the block. Two of the boys were wearing windbreakers and the third, a chubby kid, had on an ill-fitting tweed jacket. The other two were obviously giving him a hard time about his choice of attire, and trying to pull his blazer off. They were laughing happily, and started running up the block for no other reason than they were young and excited on a Spring night.
Waiting for the light to change at the corner of Fuxing Lu, I noticed that the two boys had shamed their friend into taking his jacket off amidst much joking and laughter. Then the light changed and they took off running up the street, but the heavy kid was breathing hard and kept walking, holding his jacket at his side. The other two were calling back to him and taunting, but he kept his pace knowingly. I knew then that they were heading to Jianguo Lu, and its many 'Pink Houses' - barber shops where you can get just about anything but a haircut. Nothing else could explain this level of hilarity, hope, and nerves. The fat kid suddenly started to shuffle along a bit faster, calling to his pals. He almost broke into a light jog, but somehow his body was against him. He was sweating and mopping his neck; yelling to his friends who were by now almost a block ahead of him. They were well out of sight now as I crossed the road to my building, but still he didn't run. Surely they have a plan, I thought, and they will know where to meet up.
I don't know why I was so hungry tonight. Perhaps it was the weather. The past few days have been sun steeped and almost hot. The nights are trickier, as the damp winds blow through the old streets and make you reconsider that slim jacket, stylish though it may be. I decided to sit outside at the cafe and watch the people go by. There is never any shortage of people to look at in Shanghai. Slowly sipping the strong coffee, I perused the front page of the 'Mei guo bao' (American paper) and quickly decided it was too lovely a night to worry about the insanity of our times. I quickly read Doonesbury on the back page, and with a smile curling my lips I folded it up and put it into my bag.
The young Filipino waiter came out and started folding up the umbrellas and chairs, thoughtfully saving mine for last. A few lights went out inside and I found myself in near darkness. A car pulled into the space right in front of me and a busy little woman got out to inspect her parallel parking job - not a good one. But she seemed satisfied, and I quickly thought of a story someone told me about buying licenses and not having to take the test if you could afford it. Just then the meter maid appeared out of nowhere, amazingly still on the job.
'Do xiao chien?' Asked the small, lively woman. How much? The woman looked suspiciously at the meter maid, understandably unhappy that there was someone out collecting money at that time of night. I looked at my watch and saw that it was just past ten o'clock.
As the last lights of the cafe went out I crossed the road and turned the corner onto Danshui Lu. Within moments I had been nearly sideswiped by a junk collector's overburdened three wheeler - on the sidewalk naturally. As he pedalled by he spat the stub of his cigarette out, cleared his throat, and spat - not at me, or even near me, but close enough to let me know he'd seen me. His look told me he knew what his lot in life was, and exactly how much he could get away with. I chuckled out loud, letting him know I also knew. In this situation, no matter what anger I may display I am always ultimately simpatico.
As I crossed Zizhong Lu the life of the street instantly took on a new urgency. Add a few people and a street can become a neighborhood just like that. The owner of the shabby little restaurant near the corner was sweeping out the day's crusts and crumbs into the gutter. Across the road the old ladies were in their battered chairs in front of the corner store, like so many sentries. Just next to them a woman came out of the closed up tobacco shop; peeking in I could see that the regular card game had moved inside. She was wearing a pair of red flannel pajamas with a pattern of small teddy bears, a pink cardigan sweater, and house slippers. Noticing that I was peering into the sanctuary of their game, she quickly coughed, spat, and turned back to the gambling. Not a movement was wasted, and everything had a meaning.
About halfway up the block I started to realise that it was indeed chilly, and was thankful for the close proximity to my own building. All the shops along Danshui Lu were closing up for the night and throwing anything and everything out into the street for the sweepers to pick up later. Outside of the biggest fruiterer's shop I saw a fat calico cat rubbing up against a disused wooden crate - looking like it couldn't make its mind up whether to stay in or out for the night. A few steps later something caught my eye among the refuse of the gutter. It was a small dead cat - not much more than a kitten - and was in an awkward pose, as if it were prancing along a back alley fence, but frozen in time. It's orange fur was dirty and caked against its scrawny frame.
Just then I heard some rambunctious voices behind me, and heard a loud slap followed by hearty laughter. As the shadows caught up with me I was suddenly abreast of three teenagers in the full swing of happy camaraderie. One of them had obviously just clapped his friend just a little too hard on the back and they were rough housing. As they passed me they kept looking back over their shoulders, telling me instantly that they had been running gags and being rowdy all along the block. Two of the boys were wearing windbreakers and the third, a chubby kid, had on an ill-fitting tweed jacket. The other two were obviously giving him a hard time about his choice of attire, and trying to pull his blazer off. They were laughing happily, and started running up the block for no other reason than they were young and excited on a Spring night.
Waiting for the light to change at the corner of Fuxing Lu, I noticed that the two boys had shamed their friend into taking his jacket off amidst much joking and laughter. Then the light changed and they took off running up the street, but the heavy kid was breathing hard and kept walking, holding his jacket at his side. The other two were calling back to him and taunting, but he kept his pace knowingly. I knew then that they were heading to Jianguo Lu, and its many 'Pink Houses' - barber shops where you can get just about anything but a haircut. Nothing else could explain this level of hilarity, hope, and nerves. The fat kid suddenly started to shuffle along a bit faster, calling to his pals. He almost broke into a light jog, but somehow his body was against him. He was sweating and mopping his neck; yelling to his friends who were by now almost a block ahead of him. They were well out of sight now as I crossed the road to my building, but still he didn't run. Surely they have a plan, I thought, and they will know where to meet up.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Insanity
I can now access blogger, write my blog, but cannot actually look at it or access my own blog from the web. Nuts!
Saturday, April 07, 2007
And I'm back...Words of Wisdom II
You wanna know what it's like living in China?
A month of not being able to access your blog, that's what it's like. At first I thought, 'Oh, Google has a bad relationship with China' (so I'm told) - so that's the reason. Then I thought, 'Well it must be my slow connection, sometimes I can't get into gmail or msn'. But gradually it dawned on me that something darker was at work, and I was being censored. Good Lord! For what? The only thing I can come up with is that I mentioned a certain government's p.a.r.t.y. in my last entry, so from now on I will refer to them as The Boys in Green. Let's see how long I last.
But enough of that, I'm celebrating my re-found access by revisiting an old favorite, so here it is: Words of Wisdom II, the sequel.
In the first Words of Wisdom I mentioned a certain exercise devise made out of rubber that is basically a knock-off of a similar workout fad that you may remember from late night television ads in America in the 80's. Anyway, I didn't do the Chinese version's copywriters justice last time by not letting you see their whole packaging spiel. It's really quite special, so here goes:
'The new type of pulling force named LICHAO is made of high-tech material of environmented (sic) protection. The new product is different from the traditional spring force. It is very convenient and safe to use wherever. So it is very popular to women and children. If you often exercise with it, you will be more healthful and beautiful, and it can make your chest more strongly and help in the growth of your skeleton and so on'. (That's how they ended it, not me).
Now I ask you, who doesn't want their chest to be more strongly? Especially woman and kids. And God knows we all need a fit skeleton.
Another gem I came across was the text on a lovely Chun Jie (Chinese New year) tangerine wrapper, and it goes a little sumpin like this...
'Ming Hua mandarin is Orange, contains rich maize element, Vc, Vp, and carotene, resistant to cancet (sic), health spleen, moisten lung, relieve a cough, it's appearance beautify, juice savory, flesh delicious, not only is norishing (sic) product, but also is preserve your health!'
Where to start? The tangerine is orange, who knew?? Contains, um, corn? (certainly a bio- miracle). It has Vc, Vp, and carotene? Okay...Vc could possibly be vitamin C, but that would make Vp...whoa! Don't tell Popeye! In a humid city like Shanghai, the last thing anyone wants is moister lungs, but just in case you do...get some of this flesh delicious down your slot.
Moving on, I have lately seen some ads that leave no doubt in my mind that generally speaking, the Chinese couldn't care less about the English language - even as they are trying desperately to learn it to sell things to us. A good example is condos. Most of the developers knocking down the old row houses are hoping against hope that they can attract big spending expats and the multi-national companies footing their bills. So they have outrageous 'luxury' images all over the billboards outside the construction sites and in magazines. This is a twofold marketing angle, because images of wealthy laowai (no need for poor ones) are also attractive to prospective Chinese buyers, who want more than anything to be 'classy' and consume western goods ravenously; and above all, to be able to look down unabashedly on those with less. I already mentioned Rich Gate in a previous story, so now I present another new condo that's going up a few blocks from my house called Shanghai Dynasty.
First of all, to make room for Shanghai Dynasty's rather dull looking towers (but that doesn't matter, so long as it's new, new, new!) they had to literally cut off a section of Madang Lu, a fairly major thoroughfare. So now the road makes a wide arc around the new gardens of Shanghai Dynasty. Never mind that along the way they just gutted a neighborhood of row houses, leaving some standing and others demolished - and one old factory building with a second storey walkway simply got cut in half. So where the new road is now, if you look up you see a rectangular box, cut in half, dangling out over the road. Luck of the draw I suppose. Suddenly people who have lived for generations firmly ensconced in the labyrinthian courtyards of old Shanghai are opening a door rightontothestreet. Must be a bit of an eye opener first thing in the a.m.
But the Shanghainese just keep on going. They get on with it. So I guess I should to. The other day I was walking by there and it was the first time I noticed that they had re-routed Madang Lu. The landscape changes so fast here that you really have to pay attention. As I approached the construction gate of Shanghai Dynasty (photo of a huge family crest looking thing in gold and crimson velvet with SD engraved on it) I noticed the ubiquitous guard shack, complete with coughing, spitting, chain smoking guard. I pretended to be taking down the booking information as I walked past him to get a good look at the ads. Naturally he came out and started barking at me in Shanghaihua, and just as naturally I feigned ignorance and pointed at the walls with a look that said 'I may buy one of these things and then you'll be working for me!'
He let me go in.
The first thing I noticed about the ads was that they all featured a very attractive (I suppose, if you like catalogue model/soap opera looks) Chinese couple, doing things like hugging in their fabulous (hideously decorated) foyer, or posing austerely in front of a foreign sports car (in black tie no less). Photo-shopped into the rest of the billboards all around them were healthy blond looking loawais doing things like playing tennis, playing golf, sailing (where, on the Huangpu River?) and miraculously - fencing! In fact it looked as if those madcap laowai were actually fencing in the lobby of Shanghai Dynasty, with what looked like a magnum of champagne near at hand. Now that's pretty Scott and Zelda. I'm not entirely sure what the mega-wealthy do with their spare time, but I don't think looped lobby fencing is part of it. But how would I know? I was tempted to find a paint pen and create the captions next to their big blond heads.
Rory: 'En garde, Spunky!'
Spunky: 'But Rory, we're in the lobby.'
Rory: 'Obviously, but we're also in fencing outfits, in fact I have an epee in my hand.'
Spunky: 'Oooh lala, we're rich...touche!'
Alas, I had no pen. But I had walked up close to get a look at the detail of the ads, and the closer I got, the more amazed I became. The shiftless guard, having finished his tea and in need of a pee or a good throat clearing, decided to come over and give me some shit. But I was a step ahead of him and quickly put my phone to ear and started an animated conversation in American TV English while pointing to the sign. Something along the lines of 'See here, I want a pool in the apartment, damn it, preferably olympic size...think you can manage that? Good. Money's no object. I'll have my people over there first thing tomorrow with sack of gold...' Not that it mattered, the puzzled guard certainly didn't know a breath of English anyway. Finally he decided my inscrutable laowainess, a conundrum in and of itself, just wasn't worth the trouble; despite the offense of my rather downmarket ensemble - jeans, sneakers, and a sweat shirt. In protest, or possibly just to let me know he had his glassy eye on me, he cleared his throat heroically, spat voluminously, glared contemptuously (phew!) and ambled back into his little hut.
Now, aside from all the carefree white folks on the billboard, there was also a manifesto of sorts, which, although it read like some bizarre Forbes Magazine haiku, was nonetheless telling. The opening salvo was pretty good: 'Shanghai Dynasty, an arch masterpiece' (picture of Chinese couple drinking bubbly at sunset). This was then followed by, 'It's vile to regard possessions as a number only' (two couples: one laowai, and the other sort of pan-Asian looking, experiencing the thrill of winning money at a casino - quite possibly on a boat, since one of them was wearing a yachting cap...as you do). And in summation, these words to live by, 'Someone collect Shanghai with taste.' I wish someone would. All around these money mantras were little hard to see (black on dark blue) subliminal messages, like 'In love with Shanghai Dynasty', and some were just words: Golf...Swimming...Bread...Rathskellar...Bold...Automobile...Priviledge...
Wait, bread? What's that about? Rathskeller?? These kinds of ads always do my head in because they are so exactly the opposite of what they set out to be. Instead of subliminal they are painfully obvious and unsubtle, and when put through the Chinese-to-English word finder they often become surreal. And so somehow golf plus bread divided by rathskeller equals one hell of an exclusive/expensive condominium. Oy vey! In the immortal words of Chuck Barris' grandmother, 'go know'.
Finally, I would like to share with you a large advertisement I saw at the notions market on Renmin Lu. I was shopping for some large feathers (don't ask) and I suddenly noticed escalators leading up to a hitherto unexplored second floor. The second floor proved to be a very uneventful series of knock-off bag and clothing shops. They were all of poor quality, although some had hilarious names like 'Cardill' (in exactly the same style logo as Dunhill), and 'Louis Brittan' (you can guess the rest). But the best thing I saw there was a full size 8'x10' poster for a handbag company called Satchi. It showed a very average looking, vaguely Mediterranean (i.e. unshaven) guy and a blond girl who looked like someone they found in an English language school. But they were laowai and that's all that really matters. This is one of the all-time best bludgeonings of the English language I've seen, and actually borders on inventing a new tongue altogether. I humbly submit:
'Satchi bags...And the typecast our eachothers friendships...Our love wer (sic) whisking on my fraity (sic) heart...Eyes on her...The beat of mine almost turn to jam up'
Well, it's true what they say kids - you just can't make it up. You have to see it for yourself to know it. And I am deeply, deeply grateful to be here in Shanghai seeing and knowing. And happy to be back in the blogosphere...
A month of not being able to access your blog, that's what it's like. At first I thought, 'Oh, Google has a bad relationship with China' (so I'm told) - so that's the reason. Then I thought, 'Well it must be my slow connection, sometimes I can't get into gmail or msn'. But gradually it dawned on me that something darker was at work, and I was being censored. Good Lord! For what? The only thing I can come up with is that I mentioned a certain government's p.a.r.t.y. in my last entry, so from now on I will refer to them as The Boys in Green. Let's see how long I last.
But enough of that, I'm celebrating my re-found access by revisiting an old favorite, so here it is: Words of Wisdom II, the sequel.
In the first Words of Wisdom I mentioned a certain exercise devise made out of rubber that is basically a knock-off of a similar workout fad that you may remember from late night television ads in America in the 80's. Anyway, I didn't do the Chinese version's copywriters justice last time by not letting you see their whole packaging spiel. It's really quite special, so here goes:
'The new type of pulling force named LICHAO is made of high-tech material of environmented (sic) protection. The new product is different from the traditional spring force. It is very convenient and safe to use wherever. So it is very popular to women and children. If you often exercise with it, you will be more healthful and beautiful, and it can make your chest more strongly and help in the growth of your skeleton and so on'. (That's how they ended it, not me).
Now I ask you, who doesn't want their chest to be more strongly? Especially woman and kids. And God knows we all need a fit skeleton.
Another gem I came across was the text on a lovely Chun Jie (Chinese New year) tangerine wrapper, and it goes a little sumpin like this...
'Ming Hua mandarin is Orange, contains rich maize element, Vc, Vp, and carotene, resistant to cancet (sic), health spleen, moisten lung, relieve a cough, it's appearance beautify, juice savory, flesh delicious, not only is norishing (sic) product, but also is preserve your health!'
Where to start? The tangerine is orange, who knew?? Contains, um, corn? (certainly a bio- miracle). It has Vc, Vp, and carotene? Okay...Vc could possibly be vitamin C, but that would make Vp...whoa! Don't tell Popeye! In a humid city like Shanghai, the last thing anyone wants is moister lungs, but just in case you do...get some of this flesh delicious down your slot.
Moving on, I have lately seen some ads that leave no doubt in my mind that generally speaking, the Chinese couldn't care less about the English language - even as they are trying desperately to learn it to sell things to us. A good example is condos. Most of the developers knocking down the old row houses are hoping against hope that they can attract big spending expats and the multi-national companies footing their bills. So they have outrageous 'luxury' images all over the billboards outside the construction sites and in magazines. This is a twofold marketing angle, because images of wealthy laowai (no need for poor ones) are also attractive to prospective Chinese buyers, who want more than anything to be 'classy' and consume western goods ravenously; and above all, to be able to look down unabashedly on those with less. I already mentioned Rich Gate in a previous story, so now I present another new condo that's going up a few blocks from my house called Shanghai Dynasty.
First of all, to make room for Shanghai Dynasty's rather dull looking towers (but that doesn't matter, so long as it's new, new, new!) they had to literally cut off a section of Madang Lu, a fairly major thoroughfare. So now the road makes a wide arc around the new gardens of Shanghai Dynasty. Never mind that along the way they just gutted a neighborhood of row houses, leaving some standing and others demolished - and one old factory building with a second storey walkway simply got cut in half. So where the new road is now, if you look up you see a rectangular box, cut in half, dangling out over the road. Luck of the draw I suppose. Suddenly people who have lived for generations firmly ensconced in the labyrinthian courtyards of old Shanghai are opening a door rightontothestreet. Must be a bit of an eye opener first thing in the a.m.
But the Shanghainese just keep on going. They get on with it. So I guess I should to. The other day I was walking by there and it was the first time I noticed that they had re-routed Madang Lu. The landscape changes so fast here that you really have to pay attention. As I approached the construction gate of Shanghai Dynasty (photo of a huge family crest looking thing in gold and crimson velvet with SD engraved on it) I noticed the ubiquitous guard shack, complete with coughing, spitting, chain smoking guard. I pretended to be taking down the booking information as I walked past him to get a good look at the ads. Naturally he came out and started barking at me in Shanghaihua, and just as naturally I feigned ignorance and pointed at the walls with a look that said 'I may buy one of these things and then you'll be working for me!'
He let me go in.
The first thing I noticed about the ads was that they all featured a very attractive (I suppose, if you like catalogue model/soap opera looks) Chinese couple, doing things like hugging in their fabulous (hideously decorated) foyer, or posing austerely in front of a foreign sports car (in black tie no less). Photo-shopped into the rest of the billboards all around them were healthy blond looking loawais doing things like playing tennis, playing golf, sailing (where, on the Huangpu River?) and miraculously - fencing! In fact it looked as if those madcap laowai were actually fencing in the lobby of Shanghai Dynasty, with what looked like a magnum of champagne near at hand. Now that's pretty Scott and Zelda. I'm not entirely sure what the mega-wealthy do with their spare time, but I don't think looped lobby fencing is part of it. But how would I know? I was tempted to find a paint pen and create the captions next to their big blond heads.
Rory: 'En garde, Spunky!'
Spunky: 'But Rory, we're in the lobby.'
Rory: 'Obviously, but we're also in fencing outfits, in fact I have an epee in my hand.'
Spunky: 'Oooh lala, we're rich...touche!'
Alas, I had no pen. But I had walked up close to get a look at the detail of the ads, and the closer I got, the more amazed I became. The shiftless guard, having finished his tea and in need of a pee or a good throat clearing, decided to come over and give me some shit. But I was a step ahead of him and quickly put my phone to ear and started an animated conversation in American TV English while pointing to the sign. Something along the lines of 'See here, I want a pool in the apartment, damn it, preferably olympic size...think you can manage that? Good. Money's no object. I'll have my people over there first thing tomorrow with sack of gold...' Not that it mattered, the puzzled guard certainly didn't know a breath of English anyway. Finally he decided my inscrutable laowainess, a conundrum in and of itself, just wasn't worth the trouble; despite the offense of my rather downmarket ensemble - jeans, sneakers, and a sweat shirt. In protest, or possibly just to let me know he had his glassy eye on me, he cleared his throat heroically, spat voluminously, glared contemptuously (phew!) and ambled back into his little hut.
Now, aside from all the carefree white folks on the billboard, there was also a manifesto of sorts, which, although it read like some bizarre Forbes Magazine haiku, was nonetheless telling. The opening salvo was pretty good: 'Shanghai Dynasty, an arch masterpiece' (picture of Chinese couple drinking bubbly at sunset). This was then followed by, 'It's vile to regard possessions as a number only' (two couples: one laowai, and the other sort of pan-Asian looking, experiencing the thrill of winning money at a casino - quite possibly on a boat, since one of them was wearing a yachting cap...as you do). And in summation, these words to live by, 'Someone collect Shanghai with taste.' I wish someone would. All around these money mantras were little hard to see (black on dark blue) subliminal messages, like 'In love with Shanghai Dynasty', and some were just words: Golf...Swimming...Bread...Rathskellar...Bold...Automobile...Priviledge...
Wait, bread? What's that about? Rathskeller?? These kinds of ads always do my head in because they are so exactly the opposite of what they set out to be. Instead of subliminal they are painfully obvious and unsubtle, and when put through the Chinese-to-English word finder they often become surreal. And so somehow golf plus bread divided by rathskeller equals one hell of an exclusive/expensive condominium. Oy vey! In the immortal words of Chuck Barris' grandmother, 'go know'.
Finally, I would like to share with you a large advertisement I saw at the notions market on Renmin Lu. I was shopping for some large feathers (don't ask) and I suddenly noticed escalators leading up to a hitherto unexplored second floor. The second floor proved to be a very uneventful series of knock-off bag and clothing shops. They were all of poor quality, although some had hilarious names like 'Cardill' (in exactly the same style logo as Dunhill), and 'Louis Brittan' (you can guess the rest). But the best thing I saw there was a full size 8'x10' poster for a handbag company called Satchi. It showed a very average looking, vaguely Mediterranean (i.e. unshaven) guy and a blond girl who looked like someone they found in an English language school. But they were laowai and that's all that really matters. This is one of the all-time best bludgeonings of the English language I've seen, and actually borders on inventing a new tongue altogether. I humbly submit:
'Satchi bags...And the typecast our eachothers friendships...Our love wer (sic) whisking on my fraity (sic) heart...Eyes on her...The beat of mine almost turn to jam up'
Well, it's true what they say kids - you just can't make it up. You have to see it for yourself to know it. And I am deeply, deeply grateful to be here in Shanghai seeing and knowing. And happy to be back in the blogosphere...
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Aftermath: Adrift in a Sea of Big Heart Players
I need to get out more. I really do, and today proved it. Of course I go out every day, but usually in the general direction of Huaihai Lu and Xintiandi, with its fashionable shops and restaurants, its happening hoi polloi. But today I decided to walk in the opposite direction. I was standing in my living room looking at a new skyscraper I like to call 'The Deodorant Stick' because of its rectangular shape and rounded green cap. It looks like a sixty story Speed Stick, seriously, and it's over across Zhao Jia Bang Lu in no-man's land. For some reason there is a sort of mental barrier (for me anyway) at Zhao Jia Bang Lu, and I have rarely crossed that road. I'm not sure why, except it's a big highway, and nothing has ever called me in that direction - no restaurant, party, store, or event. And yet I look over there every day, marveling at the high rise canyons with their fantastic shapes, colors, and designs (Spanish Art Deco Rococo anyone?)
It being the middle of Spring Festival now, most of the shops are still closed and very few people are working. Add some fantastic weather - warm, sunny, and balmy - and you have the makings of one big, happy Spring Festival love-in. I've never seen the people so relaxed and happy. Everyone is walking around in their best gear, smiling, laughing, spitting, yelling, and generally having a ball. This morning on Danshui Lu the usual card game had moved across to the sunny side of the street - a first. As I walked by I heard the usual deep guttural hocking up of unwanted phlegm, and looking down I saw a loosely defined, but definitely discernible semi-circle of spit that outlined three sides of the card table and its (two rows deep) ring of onlookers. I don't want to go on too much about the spitting because it's been beaten to death; my Chinese friends will probably give me a hard time about it, but if they are being honest with themselves they will be forced to admit loud hocking and spitting is common practice in Shanghai. It's funny, when I ask people about it I always get the same answer: if it's local people they will say "Those are country people, not Shanghainese people who spit" as they turn up their nose. Conversely, anyone from out of town will tell me, with a weary, disgusted look, "Shanghainese are nasty...people don't spit like that in X Province". So then nobody you talk to actually spits or approves of it. So naturally it must never happen, right? Welcome to China.
I'm all for cultural differences. I'm also for people expressing their ideas about those differences. I have long held the notion that if you want to travel the world you better get into the practice of embracing differences rather than criticizing them. For example, if I sat in a restaurant in Bangkok and picked my teeth without covering up, Thai people would be absolutely scandalised by my bad manners. They would have every right to go write in their blogs about it, too. But you can't be too one-sided. So while public spitting is universally reviled in the West (does The Bronx count?) it seems, like it or not my friends, perfectly acceptable in Shanghai. I've accepted it for the most part; I'm a bit of a sneaky old spitter myself, if I'm being totally honest. You know, the casual side of the mouth stealth style.
Anyway it was a glorious day, and as I was walking up Danshui Lu I decided, what the hell, let's just take a walk over into no-man's land and see what it looks like over by the Speedstick. One of the first things I noticed once I go to the other side was, it looks just like my side. Possibly less foreigners, but then unless I'm around Xintiandi I don't see many 'laowai' in my 'hood anyway. What I did notice was lots of 'sunday best' looking older guys squiring around much younger girls. Now, I've lived here long enough to know that they aren't their daughters either. This is the land of the KTV (karaoke television), and any self respecting guy with a bit of dough will get his main dose of entertainment there. It's actually an Asia-wide phenomenon, and it just goes by different names in each country (in Thailand they're called massage parlors). The official story is that guys go in there to relax and have a few drinks. Drinks being poured by very young girls, who for a fee will smile and flirt and laugh at their corny jokes (being on the payroll). Naturally This mixture of birds, bees, whiskey, and commerce can only end up one way (one way or the other) and so Thai cops, Japanese salary men, and Chinese Big Heart Players end up keeping these young cuties as girlfriends on the side. Big Heart Players you ask? Well I didn't make it up (although I wish I did). A few months ago, in a meeting with a major liquor brand we were working with, I was asked to come up with an idea for a party promotion that involved the color red, pretty girls (invariably), and their liquor brand. Lazily (I was dead bored) I flicked off something like 'Cupid's Revenge' or 'Get REDy' to a row of blank stares. OK, so I admit those are pretty lame, but imagine my shock (and glee) when they announced that we would stick with their national campaign: a super suave Chinese guy in a red tux holding the bottle of brand X with the tag line, 'Who is the big heart player?' Sort of like a national beefcake pageant, with different heats, playoffs, and finally a Big Heart Player champion.
I instantly started wondering, what does it take to be a Big Heart Player? Can I be one? Is it based solely on looks, or do other attributes come into play? After a solid couple months of asking around, taking notes, and generally observing Chinese culture, I have come to the conclusion that the real Big Heart Players are basically the guys I saw today squiring around their mistresses in the false Spring weather. Number one attribute? He has money. At least enough to buy drinks, eat in the private rooms of restaurants, and afford a honey or two on the side. After that everything else is an afterthought, because money rules without shame or ridicule in Shanghai, and so being a nice guy, or a good dresser, or even handsome will always lose out to having dough here. So even though the Big Heart Player poster boy was a handsome boyish fellow, I know what he really looks like: middle aged, chain smoking, boorish, and usually wearing a uniform that consists of (1) charcoal or black zip up sweater, (1) black suit of questionable cut and make, (1) bad haircut, possibly a buzz cut. You think I'm joking but these guys rule the world here. In night clubs where I've DJ'd they are sat happily on a Saturday night flagging inattentive waiters, barking orders for more champagne amidst a giggling gaggle of young chicks. Ordering champagne is always a big heart play here in Shanghai, and the stuff basically flows like a river. I've never seen so much champagne drunk anywhere in the world, and I've been to a few places. Just to let the whole bar know you're laying out plenty of Yuan for the bubbly they stick a sparkler the size of a roman candle in the bucket as they deliver it to your table. After that it's basically a 'swinging dick' comedy, with the bar being the ultimate winner as far as I can see. If one table orders champagne it's not at all uncommon to see the guy on the next table look longingly (often at the urging of the pretty young things) and snap his fingers (yes, they still do that here) and order two bottles damn it!
There are naturally different levels of Big Heart Playerdom - everything from a high ranking communist party member on down to a common laborer. The fat cat might own a few condos that he deposits his chicks in (just like the bank), while the laborer might save up his weekly pile of dirty bills for a night out treating his favorite girl from the neighborhood pink house (dodgy barber shop) to dinner at the local greasy spoon. But no matter what, they will both have to part with cash or there's no deal. I have seen sixty year old guys in Hip Hop clubs drinking whiskey in a private booth, looking vaguely bored, and surrounded by four or five extremely young, cute KTV girls, all dancing away and eyeballing (but never touching) younger guys. This guy is a serious BHP, because everyone in the club knows that even though he's an old shocker with a mug only a mother could love, he is taking these girls with him. He's paid for the privilege. On the other side of the scale I've seen a day worker gaily cruising down the street on an old bicycle with a chubby girl sitting side-saddle on the back - cigarette clamped between his teeth, screaming some no doubt charming anecdote to his young lovely as she laughs and smacks him on the back. An irascible rogue if ever there was one!
So there I was today, walking around hands in pockets, sunglasses on, taking it all in and loving every minute of it. The pictures are indelible. The guy on the bright red scooter with the orange (every bit of it) double breasted suit on. What style...what a cut! The color was somewhere between a basketball and a tangerine, and featured big boxy lapels flapping in the breeze. He finished this sartorial masterpiece off with white socks and black loafer-slippers. This devil may care fellow really had it going on; on the back of his scooter was a girl half his age wearing an electric green dress, yellow sunglasses, and pink heels. Well it was Sunday. Walking by the Hecto Coffee Shop on Xieto Lu I saw another BHP in the usual grey on black motif, who was performing an impressive feat (at least to my eyes) by simultaneously eating and holding chopsticks with his right hand, smoking with his left, and allowing a young nymph to pour beer down his greasy gullet. I don't care what anyone says, that's a big heart play.
And so I'll close this now...alas, the light is fading. What a wonderful day I had walking around Shanghai today, and with the promise of more to come. The weather is getting warmer, and that's sure to bring the big heart out in every one, maybe even me. Who knows? I can see myself in one of those zipper sweaters now, with a flat top cut and a scooter. You know what they say - when in Rome.
It being the middle of Spring Festival now, most of the shops are still closed and very few people are working. Add some fantastic weather - warm, sunny, and balmy - and you have the makings of one big, happy Spring Festival love-in. I've never seen the people so relaxed and happy. Everyone is walking around in their best gear, smiling, laughing, spitting, yelling, and generally having a ball. This morning on Danshui Lu the usual card game had moved across to the sunny side of the street - a first. As I walked by I heard the usual deep guttural hocking up of unwanted phlegm, and looking down I saw a loosely defined, but definitely discernible semi-circle of spit that outlined three sides of the card table and its (two rows deep) ring of onlookers. I don't want to go on too much about the spitting because it's been beaten to death; my Chinese friends will probably give me a hard time about it, but if they are being honest with themselves they will be forced to admit loud hocking and spitting is common practice in Shanghai. It's funny, when I ask people about it I always get the same answer: if it's local people they will say "Those are country people, not Shanghainese people who spit" as they turn up their nose. Conversely, anyone from out of town will tell me, with a weary, disgusted look, "Shanghainese are nasty...people don't spit like that in X Province". So then nobody you talk to actually spits or approves of it. So naturally it must never happen, right? Welcome to China.
I'm all for cultural differences. I'm also for people expressing their ideas about those differences. I have long held the notion that if you want to travel the world you better get into the practice of embracing differences rather than criticizing them. For example, if I sat in a restaurant in Bangkok and picked my teeth without covering up, Thai people would be absolutely scandalised by my bad manners. They would have every right to go write in their blogs about it, too. But you can't be too one-sided. So while public spitting is universally reviled in the West (does The Bronx count?) it seems, like it or not my friends, perfectly acceptable in Shanghai. I've accepted it for the most part; I'm a bit of a sneaky old spitter myself, if I'm being totally honest. You know, the casual side of the mouth stealth style.
Anyway it was a glorious day, and as I was walking up Danshui Lu I decided, what the hell, let's just take a walk over into no-man's land and see what it looks like over by the Speedstick. One of the first things I noticed once I go to the other side was, it looks just like my side. Possibly less foreigners, but then unless I'm around Xintiandi I don't see many 'laowai' in my 'hood anyway. What I did notice was lots of 'sunday best' looking older guys squiring around much younger girls. Now, I've lived here long enough to know that they aren't their daughters either. This is the land of the KTV (karaoke television), and any self respecting guy with a bit of dough will get his main dose of entertainment there. It's actually an Asia-wide phenomenon, and it just goes by different names in each country (in Thailand they're called massage parlors). The official story is that guys go in there to relax and have a few drinks. Drinks being poured by very young girls, who for a fee will smile and flirt and laugh at their corny jokes (being on the payroll). Naturally This mixture of birds, bees, whiskey, and commerce can only end up one way (one way or the other) and so Thai cops, Japanese salary men, and Chinese Big Heart Players end up keeping these young cuties as girlfriends on the side. Big Heart Players you ask? Well I didn't make it up (although I wish I did). A few months ago, in a meeting with a major liquor brand we were working with, I was asked to come up with an idea for a party promotion that involved the color red, pretty girls (invariably), and their liquor brand. Lazily (I was dead bored) I flicked off something like 'Cupid's Revenge' or 'Get REDy' to a row of blank stares. OK, so I admit those are pretty lame, but imagine my shock (and glee) when they announced that we would stick with their national campaign: a super suave Chinese guy in a red tux holding the bottle of brand X with the tag line, 'Who is the big heart player?' Sort of like a national beefcake pageant, with different heats, playoffs, and finally a Big Heart Player champion.
I instantly started wondering, what does it take to be a Big Heart Player? Can I be one? Is it based solely on looks, or do other attributes come into play? After a solid couple months of asking around, taking notes, and generally observing Chinese culture, I have come to the conclusion that the real Big Heart Players are basically the guys I saw today squiring around their mistresses in the false Spring weather. Number one attribute? He has money. At least enough to buy drinks, eat in the private rooms of restaurants, and afford a honey or two on the side. After that everything else is an afterthought, because money rules without shame or ridicule in Shanghai, and so being a nice guy, or a good dresser, or even handsome will always lose out to having dough here. So even though the Big Heart Player poster boy was a handsome boyish fellow, I know what he really looks like: middle aged, chain smoking, boorish, and usually wearing a uniform that consists of (1) charcoal or black zip up sweater, (1) black suit of questionable cut and make, (1) bad haircut, possibly a buzz cut. You think I'm joking but these guys rule the world here. In night clubs where I've DJ'd they are sat happily on a Saturday night flagging inattentive waiters, barking orders for more champagne amidst a giggling gaggle of young chicks. Ordering champagne is always a big heart play here in Shanghai, and the stuff basically flows like a river. I've never seen so much champagne drunk anywhere in the world, and I've been to a few places. Just to let the whole bar know you're laying out plenty of Yuan for the bubbly they stick a sparkler the size of a roman candle in the bucket as they deliver it to your table. After that it's basically a 'swinging dick' comedy, with the bar being the ultimate winner as far as I can see. If one table orders champagne it's not at all uncommon to see the guy on the next table look longingly (often at the urging of the pretty young things) and snap his fingers (yes, they still do that here) and order two bottles damn it!
There are naturally different levels of Big Heart Playerdom - everything from a high ranking communist party member on down to a common laborer. The fat cat might own a few condos that he deposits his chicks in (just like the bank), while the laborer might save up his weekly pile of dirty bills for a night out treating his favorite girl from the neighborhood pink house (dodgy barber shop) to dinner at the local greasy spoon. But no matter what, they will both have to part with cash or there's no deal. I have seen sixty year old guys in Hip Hop clubs drinking whiskey in a private booth, looking vaguely bored, and surrounded by four or five extremely young, cute KTV girls, all dancing away and eyeballing (but never touching) younger guys. This guy is a serious BHP, because everyone in the club knows that even though he's an old shocker with a mug only a mother could love, he is taking these girls with him. He's paid for the privilege. On the other side of the scale I've seen a day worker gaily cruising down the street on an old bicycle with a chubby girl sitting side-saddle on the back - cigarette clamped between his teeth, screaming some no doubt charming anecdote to his young lovely as she laughs and smacks him on the back. An irascible rogue if ever there was one!
So there I was today, walking around hands in pockets, sunglasses on, taking it all in and loving every minute of it. The pictures are indelible. The guy on the bright red scooter with the orange (every bit of it) double breasted suit on. What style...what a cut! The color was somewhere between a basketball and a tangerine, and featured big boxy lapels flapping in the breeze. He finished this sartorial masterpiece off with white socks and black loafer-slippers. This devil may care fellow really had it going on; on the back of his scooter was a girl half his age wearing an electric green dress, yellow sunglasses, and pink heels. Well it was Sunday. Walking by the Hecto Coffee Shop on Xieto Lu I saw another BHP in the usual grey on black motif, who was performing an impressive feat (at least to my eyes) by simultaneously eating and holding chopsticks with his right hand, smoking with his left, and allowing a young nymph to pour beer down his greasy gullet. I don't care what anyone says, that's a big heart play.
And so I'll close this now...alas, the light is fading. What a wonderful day I had walking around Shanghai today, and with the promise of more to come. The weather is getting warmer, and that's sure to bring the big heart out in every one, maybe even me. Who knows? I can see myself in one of those zipper sweaters now, with a flat top cut and a scooter. You know what they say - when in Rome.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Gong Xi Fa Cai
Gong Xi Fa Cai! Happy New Year!
Today starts the year of the pig in China. So long to the dog, it's old news now. All the dog people can stop wearing their red underwear now. They had their year. Ring in the pig!
So that's two animals I will have gotten through during my time in China, and I've been wondering today how many more I will see come and go before I move on. I wonder if I will be here long enough to see my own year (tiger) come around in 2010? It would be worth it just for all the red underwear gags - and I would wear them too. Yes, the Chinese believe it's lucky to wear red underwear all year during your birth year, and in Shanghai all you have to do is look up into a flapping laundry line on any street to see that it's not some old wives tale. There's no shortage of bright red undies.
Of course anything red is lucky at any time here, so it helps that I'm a bit of a shoe horse (is that a term? A guy who owns lots of shoes?) Anyway, I have at least three pairs of red sneakers, and I get compliments on them every time out from the locals. "I like your shoes" they will announce automatically, as if in a trance; it's learned behavior. Red is lucky, so therefore my sneakers are lucky too. I also have a nice red sheets and duvet cover set, but that's another story completely.
The past few days I have been walking around Shanghai breathing in the excitement and anticipation that's in the air. Markets that are normally crowded to claustrophobic levels are even more crowded, as everyone hustles to get gifts and provisions for the coming two weeks. That's right, everyone gets two whole weeks off. And they get another week in May, and once again in October for the Mooncake Festival. Yes, the Chinese get a lot of time off work (but don't tell the French, that could easily set off a spate of bourgeois rioting). I'm not complaining. I am in Shanghai for Chinese New year, and it's worth the other eleven and a half months of street showdowns and little defeats. Suddenly people aren't honking as much, (but of course they haven't stopped honking completely, that would be cause for alarm), and they seem to be moving a bit slower, even as they get on with their holiday rituals - buying fruit, dried fish and poultry, small gifts and red envelopes (for the kids, who all get cash), and of course beijiu, the atomic "wine" that smells like a mixture of rotten fruit and airplane glue. Of course maybe that's why they're moving a bit slower lately - that stuff will bring you down just as fast as it takes you up.
Oh, and it's like World War III outside, lest we forget who invented gunpowder. The fire crackers, rockets, and bombs started a few days ago in fits and spurts, building slowly in intensity, until tonight's crescendo. This morning I was jolted out of a sound sleep by what I can only describe as something sounding like a building collapsing, or possibly a nuclear test. Cracking open a startled eye, my initial thought was 'they're working on Chinese New year?' Since old buildings go down all the time it wasn't a stretch. But no, it was just a few kids having a bit of fun in the school yard across the road - lighting off a few grenades before breakfast.
As I went down to the beloved C-Store I ran into my neighbor from across the hallway - she of the perma-scowl and nary a good word (or any word, at least not to me). "Ni hao" she said, sweet as could be, and then smiled at me as I tried to hide my surprise. Were my ears playing tricks? Chuckling good naturedly, she then hit me with a broadside. "Gong Xi Fa Cai" she fairly sang out, stunning me anew. And finally the death blow; "That means happy new year in Chinese" she said, humming away, and handed me a tangerine wrapped in clear plastic before she turned the corner to her apartment. And this from a woman who has never uttered a word to me in ten months, much less in English. It made me wonder, is it me who's been unfriendly for ten months?
Down on the street it's an odd mixture of ghost town and war games. Most of the shops are shut, and there's far less foot and motorized traffic, but as soon as you start to enjoy it someone lights off a rug of firecrackers right next to you. It's unnerving. The first few days I was walking around like a cat on a hot tin roof, but now I've gotten into the spirit of it. I admit a well placed cherry bomb sent me ducking into the C-Store earlier today. I tried to play it off like I was just sort of swooping cavalierly into the shop, but the girl behind the counter saw me and heard the bomb go off and started snickering, but then gave me a conspiratorial, world weary nod. I'm her regular customer after all.
After a long dim sum feast in the afternoon I took a walk around the neighborhood to get a feel for the building excitement. The atmosphere was changing by the moment. By about 3 pm the noise started to be regular: Bang! Boom! Rat Tat Tat! and various whistling noises that I can't recreate onomatopoeically. By six there were no longer intervals of silence between the explosions, and the landscape began to resemble a happy, rosy cheeked version of urban warfare, as young boys raced to and fro lighting off all manner of ordinance. It was at that point that I decided I would stay home and enjoy the festivities at midnight before calling it an early night. Since I live on the 31st floor and have excellent views on all sides, I figured I'd be in good shape, looking down on it all.
By around ten o'clock the sounds outside were not only regular, but getting very crowded. Layers of noise were being added by the minute, so that it became a thick aural blanket, drowning out all other street sounds, and punctuated regularly by building shaking explosions. I was watching Woody Allen's Bananas on DVD, and had to keep turning the volume up. Occasionally there would be an explosion so violent as to make me jump up from the couch and peer out into the ever-growing mayhem outside. I put my glasses on and could see people walking around in the street as rockets launched right by them. Taxis were casually driving around Persian carpets of firecrackers and disappearing in cumulus clouds of sulphuric smoke, only to reappear and let some customers out in the middle of it all. Everyone seemed happy and excited, and not a bit worried about getting an arm blown off.
Looking up at the clock as the movie ended I noticed it was 11:30 and I had the TV's volume almost all the way up; indeed the noise outside had recently ratcheted up to an unprecedented level. I went to make a pot of tea and from my kitchen window the building across from me looked like it was being hit with a strobe light. The fireworks were incessant now, and multi-leveled. People were lighting them from the courtyard, streets, apartments, middle of the road - anywhere and everywhere. I took my cuppa excitedly into the guest bedroom, since it's on the corner and has the most unobstructed views. Starting from about 11:45 until 12:15 I was treated to a display the likes of which I've never seen before. It dwarfed any Macy's Fourth of July I've ever witnessed. It was an entire city blowing up, incessantly, for half an hour.
The people downstairs from my building, on Danshui Lu, had set up a sort of makeshift launching pad area, and this served as the nerve center for our block. But every other block also had one. They never stopped setting off rockets once during that half hour, many of them actually reaching up higher than my building - but most of the big ones exploding right at my eye level, giving me the feeling of being inside the beautiful, multi-hued explosions. Bits of sizzling rockets were tinging off my windows, inches from my face. A few smashed against the side of my building before ricocheting off and exploding. It was intense. I got lost in it for a while and didn't realise when midnight had struck, only that the intensity of my dream got deeper. My forehead was pressed up against the window, the breath from my nose fogging the pane. I was gone...
Suddenly I was eleven years old and watching the Fourth of July fireworks in a football stadium, losing myself and all my budding adolescent problems in the explosions in the sky. I felt that confused loss of innocence again, as I remembered a time when I still had an excuse. What happened so long ago to that kid who played baseball fiercely and told tall tales - that boy with a many-hued imagination who dreamed a life that wasn't his? What happened that made him go another way while so many others went the straight route? All those mad years; losing himself in order to gain a life. Lost in the flying fire, I recalled, no re-lived, those feelings, and in my reverie I found myself asking: How did I get here? How did I make it to Hefei Lu in Shanghai, China on Chinese New Year watching fireworks from my apartment high above the city? What has guided my path here? How did I find the power to ever leave New York?
But here I am - from Chinatown to a town in China. Looking out at the electric black sky with its flashes and flames, I felt sure the answer is not in the knowing. The answer is in the accepting.
Today starts the year of the pig in China. So long to the dog, it's old news now. All the dog people can stop wearing their red underwear now. They had their year. Ring in the pig!
So that's two animals I will have gotten through during my time in China, and I've been wondering today how many more I will see come and go before I move on. I wonder if I will be here long enough to see my own year (tiger) come around in 2010? It would be worth it just for all the red underwear gags - and I would wear them too. Yes, the Chinese believe it's lucky to wear red underwear all year during your birth year, and in Shanghai all you have to do is look up into a flapping laundry line on any street to see that it's not some old wives tale. There's no shortage of bright red undies.
Of course anything red is lucky at any time here, so it helps that I'm a bit of a shoe horse (is that a term? A guy who owns lots of shoes?) Anyway, I have at least three pairs of red sneakers, and I get compliments on them every time out from the locals. "I like your shoes" they will announce automatically, as if in a trance; it's learned behavior. Red is lucky, so therefore my sneakers are lucky too. I also have a nice red sheets and duvet cover set, but that's another story completely.
The past few days I have been walking around Shanghai breathing in the excitement and anticipation that's in the air. Markets that are normally crowded to claustrophobic levels are even more crowded, as everyone hustles to get gifts and provisions for the coming two weeks. That's right, everyone gets two whole weeks off. And they get another week in May, and once again in October for the Mooncake Festival. Yes, the Chinese get a lot of time off work (but don't tell the French, that could easily set off a spate of bourgeois rioting). I'm not complaining. I am in Shanghai for Chinese New year, and it's worth the other eleven and a half months of street showdowns and little defeats. Suddenly people aren't honking as much, (but of course they haven't stopped honking completely, that would be cause for alarm), and they seem to be moving a bit slower, even as they get on with their holiday rituals - buying fruit, dried fish and poultry, small gifts and red envelopes (for the kids, who all get cash), and of course beijiu, the atomic "wine" that smells like a mixture of rotten fruit and airplane glue. Of course maybe that's why they're moving a bit slower lately - that stuff will bring you down just as fast as it takes you up.
Oh, and it's like World War III outside, lest we forget who invented gunpowder. The fire crackers, rockets, and bombs started a few days ago in fits and spurts, building slowly in intensity, until tonight's crescendo. This morning I was jolted out of a sound sleep by what I can only describe as something sounding like a building collapsing, or possibly a nuclear test. Cracking open a startled eye, my initial thought was 'they're working on Chinese New year?' Since old buildings go down all the time it wasn't a stretch. But no, it was just a few kids having a bit of fun in the school yard across the road - lighting off a few grenades before breakfast.
As I went down to the beloved C-Store I ran into my neighbor from across the hallway - she of the perma-scowl and nary a good word (or any word, at least not to me). "Ni hao" she said, sweet as could be, and then smiled at me as I tried to hide my surprise. Were my ears playing tricks? Chuckling good naturedly, she then hit me with a broadside. "Gong Xi Fa Cai" she fairly sang out, stunning me anew. And finally the death blow; "That means happy new year in Chinese" she said, humming away, and handed me a tangerine wrapped in clear plastic before she turned the corner to her apartment. And this from a woman who has never uttered a word to me in ten months, much less in English. It made me wonder, is it me who's been unfriendly for ten months?
Down on the street it's an odd mixture of ghost town and war games. Most of the shops are shut, and there's far less foot and motorized traffic, but as soon as you start to enjoy it someone lights off a rug of firecrackers right next to you. It's unnerving. The first few days I was walking around like a cat on a hot tin roof, but now I've gotten into the spirit of it. I admit a well placed cherry bomb sent me ducking into the C-Store earlier today. I tried to play it off like I was just sort of swooping cavalierly into the shop, but the girl behind the counter saw me and heard the bomb go off and started snickering, but then gave me a conspiratorial, world weary nod. I'm her regular customer after all.
After a long dim sum feast in the afternoon I took a walk around the neighborhood to get a feel for the building excitement. The atmosphere was changing by the moment. By about 3 pm the noise started to be regular: Bang! Boom! Rat Tat Tat! and various whistling noises that I can't recreate onomatopoeically. By six there were no longer intervals of silence between the explosions, and the landscape began to resemble a happy, rosy cheeked version of urban warfare, as young boys raced to and fro lighting off all manner of ordinance. It was at that point that I decided I would stay home and enjoy the festivities at midnight before calling it an early night. Since I live on the 31st floor and have excellent views on all sides, I figured I'd be in good shape, looking down on it all.
By around ten o'clock the sounds outside were not only regular, but getting very crowded. Layers of noise were being added by the minute, so that it became a thick aural blanket, drowning out all other street sounds, and punctuated regularly by building shaking explosions. I was watching Woody Allen's Bananas on DVD, and had to keep turning the volume up. Occasionally there would be an explosion so violent as to make me jump up from the couch and peer out into the ever-growing mayhem outside. I put my glasses on and could see people walking around in the street as rockets launched right by them. Taxis were casually driving around Persian carpets of firecrackers and disappearing in cumulus clouds of sulphuric smoke, only to reappear and let some customers out in the middle of it all. Everyone seemed happy and excited, and not a bit worried about getting an arm blown off.
Looking up at the clock as the movie ended I noticed it was 11:30 and I had the TV's volume almost all the way up; indeed the noise outside had recently ratcheted up to an unprecedented level. I went to make a pot of tea and from my kitchen window the building across from me looked like it was being hit with a strobe light. The fireworks were incessant now, and multi-leveled. People were lighting them from the courtyard, streets, apartments, middle of the road - anywhere and everywhere. I took my cuppa excitedly into the guest bedroom, since it's on the corner and has the most unobstructed views. Starting from about 11:45 until 12:15 I was treated to a display the likes of which I've never seen before. It dwarfed any Macy's Fourth of July I've ever witnessed. It was an entire city blowing up, incessantly, for half an hour.
The people downstairs from my building, on Danshui Lu, had set up a sort of makeshift launching pad area, and this served as the nerve center for our block. But every other block also had one. They never stopped setting off rockets once during that half hour, many of them actually reaching up higher than my building - but most of the big ones exploding right at my eye level, giving me the feeling of being inside the beautiful, multi-hued explosions. Bits of sizzling rockets were tinging off my windows, inches from my face. A few smashed against the side of my building before ricocheting off and exploding. It was intense. I got lost in it for a while and didn't realise when midnight had struck, only that the intensity of my dream got deeper. My forehead was pressed up against the window, the breath from my nose fogging the pane. I was gone...
Suddenly I was eleven years old and watching the Fourth of July fireworks in a football stadium, losing myself and all my budding adolescent problems in the explosions in the sky. I felt that confused loss of innocence again, as I remembered a time when I still had an excuse. What happened so long ago to that kid who played baseball fiercely and told tall tales - that boy with a many-hued imagination who dreamed a life that wasn't his? What happened that made him go another way while so many others went the straight route? All those mad years; losing himself in order to gain a life. Lost in the flying fire, I recalled, no re-lived, those feelings, and in my reverie I found myself asking: How did I get here? How did I make it to Hefei Lu in Shanghai, China on Chinese New Year watching fireworks from my apartment high above the city? What has guided my path here? How did I find the power to ever leave New York?
But here I am - from Chinatown to a town in China. Looking out at the electric black sky with its flashes and flames, I felt sure the answer is not in the knowing. The answer is in the accepting.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Memories
It's Valentine's Day here in Shanghai, and it's absolute murder trying to get a taxi. Of course that's also because it's right on the cusp of Chinese New years, and there are A) more people trying to get them, and B) less people driving them. So I thought I would just stay home today and write something about Valentine's Day. Not that I'm a huge fan of this day mind you, but then again I have nothing against it either. I can honestly say that I've been single for almost every Valentine's Day of my life, and yet I could never understand all the morbid single people sitting at home eyeing the razor blades and cyanide because they had no sweetheart on Valentine's Day. Does this mean I am not a romantic? I'm not so sure.
Upon reflection, I think one thing that surely makes you 'a romantic' is how much you dwell on memories. I dwell on them all the time. I love my memories. Conveniently, the human brain has a lovely mechanism for softening all the rough edges of our memories. Things I did even three years ago that were absolutely mediocre at the time now seem like great events. DJ tours I cobbled together on small budgets that were tough on me (and my back - carrying around heavy record bags) now seem epic. Yeah, remember the time we went to Poland and played in Krakow and Warsaw and slept on the promoter's couch and spent the rest of the time in the car? Remember all the bad food (I'm pretty much veggie, and we're talking Poland)? Remember the Krakow gig with maybe a hundred chain smoking students? But it's never like that. Instead I look back on the few snapshots I took and it feels more like the Beatles at The Hollywood Bowl or something. Memories do that to you. Time does too.
So I've been going through an old photo album today. Well not just any photo album, but me and my ex-girlfriend's photo album - something I haven't been able to look at since we split up around six months ago. I just couldn't face it until today. But then I thought, it's Valentine's Day and I wonder what she's doing now? So rather than go down that slippery slope of shame and regret, I thought I'd just open the damned thing up and face my demons - and write something too, of course. You know what? It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. A little bit sad, of course, especially when I see how happy we look in those pics; jauntily posing at the beach, amidst the ruffled bedsheets of the seaside hotel, peering over some rare flowers in a misty mountain park. But more than sadness, an old familiar feeling crept in as I looked at these moments frozen in time. I felt nostalgic. Yes, memories and their magic have done it again. A small smile curled the corners of my mouth as I retraced those steps in Singapore, and recalled that restaurant in Vietnam with the amazing tamarind crabs.
As I mentioned, I've been alone most Valentine's Days in my life, but for a few years recently I was not. I bought flowers and presents and had nice dinners with my ex, but I'm not sure that makes me a romantic either. After all, flowers and candy are nice, but nobody remembers them. Where we went for dinner, the table we sat at, how her hair fell across her eyes as she glittered and shone with excitement at my small gift. These I remember like they were yesterday. And looking through our old pictures I again remember sandy sarongs and beach burials; scenic overpasses and warmth beneath covers on chilly nights in rustic cabins. But the inevitable tiffs and misunderstandings I can't recall now. Memory has deleted them. The boring times when we both felt the need to get away is absent now, but surely it was there then. This picture of us sitting back to back on the beach; I look so happy. Surely I must have been, but was I thinking about the Red Sox at that moment, or of some work related hassle? Was she wondering about her new job, or whether or not to buy those new boots? Or worse, was she wondering how she ever got into this situation with me? Memory tells me we were very happy there at that beach, but it's hard to know.
I think I am 'a romantic', but not necessarily a romantic person. I never cared about flowers or presents until there was someone who meant something to me, and then I just wanted to make her happy all the time. It wasn't about the chocolates, and it's not about Valentine's Day; it's about really caring about someone and realizing that these things will make her happy. So I'm not sitting at home slitting my wrists today because it's Valentine's Day and I have no significant other. I'm looking over the past and realising that I will always remember it fondly, despite anger, heartbreak, resentment, or sadness. I will remind myself from time to time through a few snatched photos that I will occasionally look at. And it will always make me smile and feel warm inside, as it did today. And so I guess I really am just an old romantic.
Upon reflection, I think one thing that surely makes you 'a romantic' is how much you dwell on memories. I dwell on them all the time. I love my memories. Conveniently, the human brain has a lovely mechanism for softening all the rough edges of our memories. Things I did even three years ago that were absolutely mediocre at the time now seem like great events. DJ tours I cobbled together on small budgets that were tough on me (and my back - carrying around heavy record bags) now seem epic. Yeah, remember the time we went to Poland and played in Krakow and Warsaw and slept on the promoter's couch and spent the rest of the time in the car? Remember all the bad food (I'm pretty much veggie, and we're talking Poland)? Remember the Krakow gig with maybe a hundred chain smoking students? But it's never like that. Instead I look back on the few snapshots I took and it feels more like the Beatles at The Hollywood Bowl or something. Memories do that to you. Time does too.
So I've been going through an old photo album today. Well not just any photo album, but me and my ex-girlfriend's photo album - something I haven't been able to look at since we split up around six months ago. I just couldn't face it until today. But then I thought, it's Valentine's Day and I wonder what she's doing now? So rather than go down that slippery slope of shame and regret, I thought I'd just open the damned thing up and face my demons - and write something too, of course. You know what? It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. A little bit sad, of course, especially when I see how happy we look in those pics; jauntily posing at the beach, amidst the ruffled bedsheets of the seaside hotel, peering over some rare flowers in a misty mountain park. But more than sadness, an old familiar feeling crept in as I looked at these moments frozen in time. I felt nostalgic. Yes, memories and their magic have done it again. A small smile curled the corners of my mouth as I retraced those steps in Singapore, and recalled that restaurant in Vietnam with the amazing tamarind crabs.
As I mentioned, I've been alone most Valentine's Days in my life, but for a few years recently I was not. I bought flowers and presents and had nice dinners with my ex, but I'm not sure that makes me a romantic either. After all, flowers and candy are nice, but nobody remembers them. Where we went for dinner, the table we sat at, how her hair fell across her eyes as she glittered and shone with excitement at my small gift. These I remember like they were yesterday. And looking through our old pictures I again remember sandy sarongs and beach burials; scenic overpasses and warmth beneath covers on chilly nights in rustic cabins. But the inevitable tiffs and misunderstandings I can't recall now. Memory has deleted them. The boring times when we both felt the need to get away is absent now, but surely it was there then. This picture of us sitting back to back on the beach; I look so happy. Surely I must have been, but was I thinking about the Red Sox at that moment, or of some work related hassle? Was she wondering about her new job, or whether or not to buy those new boots? Or worse, was she wondering how she ever got into this situation with me? Memory tells me we were very happy there at that beach, but it's hard to know.
I think I am 'a romantic', but not necessarily a romantic person. I never cared about flowers or presents until there was someone who meant something to me, and then I just wanted to make her happy all the time. It wasn't about the chocolates, and it's not about Valentine's Day; it's about really caring about someone and realizing that these things will make her happy. So I'm not sitting at home slitting my wrists today because it's Valentine's Day and I have no significant other. I'm looking over the past and realising that I will always remember it fondly, despite anger, heartbreak, resentment, or sadness. I will remind myself from time to time through a few snatched photos that I will occasionally look at. And it will always make me smile and feel warm inside, as it did today. And so I guess I really am just an old romantic.
Friday, February 02, 2007
The Fishmonger of Danshui Lu
I happen to live on the corner of Danshui Lu and Hefei Lu, in the Luwan district of Shanghai. Being very much a creature of habit, I walk most of the length of Danshui Lu every day on my way to and from the shops, cafes, markets, and restaurants of Xintiandi and Huaihai Lu. There are other, more attractive routes I could take to be sure, but somehow I always find myself back on this dingy, over crowded road; in particular the block between Zizhong Lu and Fuxing Lu, with its funky fumes, its simple sounds and sights. Lucky for me, I moved here in time to see Danshui Lu in all is raw, uncut glory. Sadly, I don't think it will be around for much longer.
I could easily walk home by taking Madang Lu, only a block away, but a neighborhood on the up-and-up, with its new subway station going in (and blocks of row houses going out). But it's losing all its flavor now. When I first moved here a year ago it was a lovely, leafy street with charming, if dilapidated brick row houses on either side. But now a big subway project has ex'd out the entire east side of the street, and on the next block the west side is a ghost town, getting smashed down piece meal. Inevitably there will be a shiny new shopping complex above the shiny new subway station, and high rise condos closer to me - hopefully not obscuring my views too badly. But I'm on the thirty first floor so I'm not that worried.
As I rail against the obliteration of 'old Shanghai' I realise I am open to charges of hypocrisy, since I myself live in a high rise. But my guilt is tempered with the knowledge that my building is ten years old, and by Shanghai speed-morphing standards it's already 'old'. But getting back to Danshui Lu. It's really old, and its inhabitants are quite an incredible, inscrutable bunch. In fact a lot of them are also really old. I never seem to get tired of watching them go about their daily business, it being so far removed from the 'modern' life I knew in America. I say modern life because the scenes being played out on Danshui Lu are probably not much different from life in say, turn of the century America. Where we now have mega-markets, organic deliveries, boutique delis, home and bath emporiums, and fast food, Danshui Lu has grubby little shop fronts selling vegetables, fruit, tobacco, tea, meat and poultry. And my personal favorite, the fishmonger.
These shop fronts are very small, maybe ten or fifteen square feet, and almost always where the proprietor lives and sleeps. Often the whole family. Many's the night I have seen a sleepy eyed woman closing the front gate of a little shop from the inside. I have also looked past the energetic cajoling of a fruiterer to see a wizened old man sit up from his loft bed inside the shop, surrounded by supplies, and call for his tea. There is one woman who lives in a tiny vegetable stand - not more than the size of a decent bathroom - that is fantastically cluttered and spilling out everywhere onto the sidewalk. She is constantly washing, trimming, and pruning her goods, seated at a small stool on the sidewalk, while simultaneously doing her laundry (by hand) and hanging it everywhere around the shop. In fact most of the inhabitants of Danshui Lu hang their clothes out to dry on the street, from windows, and with an elaborate web of lines connecting street lights, trees, shutters, and power lines. In order to keep them out of harms (and pedestrians) way they hang the clothes high above the sidewalk with bamboo or wooden poles, reminding me of the contraptions they used to use in old school delis in New York to get things that were stacked high up on the shelves. It's not at all unusual to feel a drop of collected water hit you in the face as you hurry along your way. Looking up you might find a pair of lucky red underwear or some faded sheets, freshly hung out to dry a full story up.
There are no fewer than three vegetable stands on this block, and they get their goods in from the countryside daily. You can always tell what's in season on Danshui Lu just by looking at the baskets of greens being clipped and washed in front of the vegetable stands. A few times I asked the Shanghainese (all they generally speak on this road) name of the fresh vegetable with the idea that I would casually drop it while ordering at a restaurant later that night. But I inevitably paid for my showing off, as the waitress took that as a sign that I spoke the local lingo and began a rapid fire discourse about the greens. Sheepishly I would then have to throw my hands up and mutter "Wo bu dong", I don't understand.
If fruit is what you're after, there is even more of that. In fact, I would say that Shanghai has as much, if not more fresh fruit around than any place I've ever lived. There are fruit stands simply everywhere. On this block of Danshui Lu there are five, including the corner. I always ask myself, who buys it all? I buy my fair share, and one of the small joys in my life is the fact that they always have fresh, firm apples for sale. Lately the season has delivered a bounty of small (the size of a large grape) delicious mandarin oranges, locally called 'jin jeu'. They are firm and smooth on the outside, and you basically just pop them in your mouth and eat the whole thing, thin rind and all. Absolutely amazing; sweeter than an orange, but the rind adds the slightest hint of bitterness to the proceedings, and you don't even notice the pulp and pits. I've had a hard time keeping them on my kitchen table, as they are hard to stop eating once you start. Today I bought a bagful from my favorite place on the way home, and when the proprietress rang me up she looked at me and put up two fingers, flashing them twice. Now, understand that this lady has stuck with me through my knowing how to say 'hello' and 'thank you' and not much else, to learning (and forgetting) how to count, to finally having a very tentative grasp of Putonghua, or Mandarin. And she speaks Shanghainese, a whole other dialect. She looked at me and said what sounded like "Nee eh nee", flashing the two fingers again. Her son said something from the back, where he was doing his homework amidst the supplies and empty boxes, and they both laughed. Not at me, but knowingly - they know me by now. Then she said "Er shi er" which is Putonghua for twenty two. This may sound ridiculous, but it was a breakthrough for me. I knew she was saying twenty two in Shanghaihua, although I was too shy to ask in mandarin. But I knew! So I asked her to repeat the Shangahinese and she did and we established that it meant I owed her twenty two kuai at the end of it all. I paid and was happily on my way.
It's been unseasonably warm the last few days, and with the warm weather came the return of another interesting feature of Danshui Lu, the floating card game. As a rule this card game is going on regardless of the elements, kind of like the U.S. Postal Service. But the bitter cold of January had driven it inside somewhere, or possibly shut it down altogether. So the other evening as I walked up the road in my light sweatshirt, eating jin jeus, and enjoying the twilight, I was happy to see them back in action; right back in their favorite spot, in the middle of the sidewalk in front of a rather disreputable looking smoke shop. As usual the game itself was dwarfed by the crowd of kibitzers standing around the rickety table, smoking, spitting, and making side bets. Once when I was passing by I noticed a larger than usual crowd and realised that the card game wasn't getting the attention it usually does; in fact the heaving swell of humanity was all crowded around the front of the smoke shop instead. Not being able to resist, I walked over to take a look and discovered (after a minute or two of jostling for position) that there was a pitched cricket fight going on. Inside the shop, seated across a small table from each other were two old men, and in what looked like a small flat bowl were two glistening black crickets going at it. The tension was edible, and the action was fast, with so much money going down on the two combatants. I watched for a minute, but the novelty of my presence quickly evaporated and the gamblers edged me out to watch their investments. Seriously, you would have thought it was Ali-Frazier or the 'Thrilla in Manila' by the looks on their faces.
I have previously mentioned the notorious 'pink houses', and surprisingly, while this humble block of Danshui Lu boasts three hair salons and two foot massage places, there are no barber shops of the dodgy variety to be seen. At least not any outright ones, but you never can tell at night. One night I was walking home quite late and as I walked past one of the foot massage places a girl came out, and when she saw me she quickly smiled and said "You want massagey?"
"Foot massage?" I queried. Remember it was after midnight. I thought it was a bit late for this kind of service. She smiled slyly and said "I give you good massagey...now!" I passed.
As I walk home every day I always notice something new. Recently one of the fruiterers on the west side of the street has expanded, and now his shop seems to be two shops banged together, giving it an almost reasonable size. I will continue to buy from the ramshackle place on the corner though, despite (or possibly because of) getting heckled in Shanghainese from the lady there. Another development has been the slow proliferation of arty little boutiques along the road, always a danger sign to any old neighborhood. Just ask the East Village in New York, or Shoreditch in London. It seems especially odd on Danshui Lu, with it's rough manners and village atmosphere. But there they are; there are three now, with names like La Vie Jolie and Artiscene. They all sell jewelry, clothes, and assorted knick knackery. I'm sure the rent must be dirt cheap. I wonder if the shop owners and denizens of Danshui Lu take a moment out of their treadmill day to reflect on what these boutiques might portend? Right around the corner, across from Rich Gate all the original shops are long gone, replaced by...boutiques. Probably not, as the locals don't seem to be the most reflective people; but rather, hard working and living, in their 'head down and get on with it' Shanghai way.
There are two rough and ready little restaurants on this block that cook food in tiny shop fronts and seve their customers on crates and stools out on the sidewalk, in a low budget version of al fresco dining. The sidewalk within a ten foot radius of these places is filthy and grease stained, and the curbside perpetually cluttered with refuse from their quick, oily offerings. To be sure, these places are nerve centers for the neighborhood. Everyone from locals to the migrant construction workers from the nearby construction projects take meals here - usually a meat and a vegetable (whatever they're cooking that day) cooked in a wok in copious amounts of oil, the Shanghai way. This rough hewn meal is invariably washed down with large bottles of local Reeb beer (get it? Beer spelled backwards) and then cupfuls of cheap tea. It may not sound wonderful, but if you can get that all down your neck for ten kuai who can complain? The second place is a bit larger and actually has a few tables inside. They also serve seafood, and at certain times when a nice catch comes in they will proudly display live crayfish, crabs, or shrimp outside for all the Lu to see. Again, it's absolutely filthy to look at, but that never stops the locals from dallying on until past ten some nights, picking at bones, drinking, smoking, spitting (invariably), and basically enjoying life. I have been sorely tempted to take a seat myself when the crayfish are on offer, but can't get past the grease and grime of it all. I have eaten in much worse places in the the world (did somebody say India?) but if I'm given a choice I prefer to eat in relative cleanliness. Having said that, I have no doubt that those crayfish would be delicious. I'll have to ask if they do take-away.
And that brings me to my favorite character on the block, the fishmonger. Actually there are two fishmongers, possibly three (I can never tell, one of them just opportunistically sells whatever's going). But my fascination lies with the larger shop, just before Fuxing Lu, on the west side of the street. Like everyone else that sells anything (aside from the recent boutiques) on this block, the fishmonger's wares are displayed wherever he can find space; in his shop, on the sidewalk, in the street, and sometimes even across the street, in the form of large fish hanging from windows, drying in the sun. It is not uncommon to walk by and see three of four kiddie pools full of eels or crabs or splashing river fish impeding your path. So in this way he kind of forces you to have a look at what he's got. Talk about marketing 101. And keep your wits about you when passing his place, because anything can be hanging from hooks under his awning. One recent day I was absent-mindedly following the trajectory of a guy on a motorbike who had just finished eating at the seafood place on the opposite sidewalk; he got up, blew out the shocking contents of his nose in the general direction of the curb, coughed up something loud and long, spat it with much flair, hopped on his bike while lighting a cigarette, and peeled out, honking his horn in warning at all and sundry. Talk about multi-tasking. Mildly affronted, I followed him with my eyes until I felt a damp 'thump' against my forehead. Flinching, I looked up to see the swinging carcass of a freshly plucked duck. In fact there were many ducks, and chickens, and even a few geese, all hanging from hooks from every place imaginable. What's this, I thought. Is the fishmonger branching out?
At that moment it was about six p.m. and the dusk was settling on Danshui Lu like a dirty, well-worn jacket. I looked up at the naked flock above my head in amazement. Also hanging to dry in the twilight were blood red slabs of bacon and chubby grey fish that had been sliced in half and opened up, so that they resembled a round flounder. Just then the fishmonger, a huge man with a wedge shaped head and deep set coal black eyes, walked out and started laughing and pointing. His shirt and apron were more crimson than whatever color they originally were. In fact he looked like he'd been tarred and feathered bizarrely with dark red pitch and fish scales. His enormous black rubber boots were equally covered, and he came squishing out to the sidewalk and started booming at me in rapid fire Shanghainese. I had no idea what he was saying, but he kept pointing up at the duck I had knocked into and laughing and saying what sounded like "De va?" I have been living in Shanghai for almost a year now and this is probably the phrase I hear the most from cabbies, store clerks, or any local people. Actually he was saying 'dui ba?', which is a bastardization of 'dui ma?' or to be literal, 'correct, right?'. It's the same as saying 'right?', or in New York possibly 'You know what I'm sayin?' But alas, I didn't know what he was saying.
Nevertheless, he took the oddly skinny duck down and offered me a close up view of its waxy head and over sized webbed feet. At that point I noticed that inside the shop was what looked like his whole family, five or six people, all seated around a chopping block table eating dinner. They were all in their work clothes, and eating heartily (and noisily). They all looked up at the same time, only vaguely amused (with their dinner in front of them), and a bit puzzled. They all had the same snowman's eyes and round faces with fiery cheeks, and I thought they must be related. These are not the same Chinese people you meet at parties and night clubs. These are the People of the People's Republic. Then the big boss said something and they all erupted with laughter. I looked back and he was thrusting the dead duck towards me and everyone thought that was pretty funny too. I started laughing also, and then he pulled down one of the Frisbee fish and showed me that, making another crack out of the side of his mouth that brought the house down again. It was funny too, I could tell that. He had very natural comic timing, something I always find hard not to appreciate even if it's aimed at me in an incomprehensible language. So I walked over to the wall and pointed to what looked like a splayed open narwhal hanging on a nail. Really, I had been marvelling at these fish from the fist time I saw them drying against his wall a few weeks earlier. They are silver and shaped something like a tarpon, and average about five feet long. "Zhe ge shen me?" I asked, and pulled a face; and then there was one of those beautiful moments in comedy called the broad take...and then everyone started cracking up. I guess just the fact that I'd spoken (quite possibly incorrect) Chinese was enough of a shocker to the convulse the peanut gallery. They really were getting a kick out of it, repeating what I'd said with obvious relish over and over. All I'd asked was "what's this?"
Deflecting the fishmongers overtures to buy a big dried fish for my house brought on another round of giggling. As if I'd have the first idea what to do with it. He kept pointing to it and saying, among other things, "Chun jie", his small black eyes glittering in the reflection of the lone bulb hanging above him. "Chun jie" they all kept saying, and I was familiar with the term, but my Chinese being extremely shaky, I panicked and couldn't put two and two together. I pantomimed my adieus and we all shared a last snicker, having shared a joke that we hardly understood. But it was good natured, and I was glad of this human contact, this small moment.
***
I walked away happy and scratching my head at what he could have possibly been saying to me that was so funny. When I got home I went right to my Chinese lessons and searched through my notes. And there it was. Chun jie means Spring Festival, or Chinese New Year, an event that will take place starting next week. So that's why all the delicacies were hanging there. The next day I asked my Chinese tutor about those big fish and she told me they are called 'man yu', and they are caught in the ocean and eaten in soups and stews after being dried. Then I recalled hearing that word over and over again too. Of course they were laughing; in their world Chun Jie only comes once a year and it's the biggest celebration of the year, and I was pointing to a fish that's ritualistically eaten during the Spring Festival. Every Shanghainese person, young and old knows about man yu.
And now I do too.
I could easily walk home by taking Madang Lu, only a block away, but a neighborhood on the up-and-up, with its new subway station going in (and blocks of row houses going out). But it's losing all its flavor now. When I first moved here a year ago it was a lovely, leafy street with charming, if dilapidated brick row houses on either side. But now a big subway project has ex'd out the entire east side of the street, and on the next block the west side is a ghost town, getting smashed down piece meal. Inevitably there will be a shiny new shopping complex above the shiny new subway station, and high rise condos closer to me - hopefully not obscuring my views too badly. But I'm on the thirty first floor so I'm not that worried.
As I rail against the obliteration of 'old Shanghai' I realise I am open to charges of hypocrisy, since I myself live in a high rise. But my guilt is tempered with the knowledge that my building is ten years old, and by Shanghai speed-morphing standards it's already 'old'. But getting back to Danshui Lu. It's really old, and its inhabitants are quite an incredible, inscrutable bunch. In fact a lot of them are also really old. I never seem to get tired of watching them go about their daily business, it being so far removed from the 'modern' life I knew in America. I say modern life because the scenes being played out on Danshui Lu are probably not much different from life in say, turn of the century America. Where we now have mega-markets, organic deliveries, boutique delis, home and bath emporiums, and fast food, Danshui Lu has grubby little shop fronts selling vegetables, fruit, tobacco, tea, meat and poultry. And my personal favorite, the fishmonger.
These shop fronts are very small, maybe ten or fifteen square feet, and almost always where the proprietor lives and sleeps. Often the whole family. Many's the night I have seen a sleepy eyed woman closing the front gate of a little shop from the inside. I have also looked past the energetic cajoling of a fruiterer to see a wizened old man sit up from his loft bed inside the shop, surrounded by supplies, and call for his tea. There is one woman who lives in a tiny vegetable stand - not more than the size of a decent bathroom - that is fantastically cluttered and spilling out everywhere onto the sidewalk. She is constantly washing, trimming, and pruning her goods, seated at a small stool on the sidewalk, while simultaneously doing her laundry (by hand) and hanging it everywhere around the shop. In fact most of the inhabitants of Danshui Lu hang their clothes out to dry on the street, from windows, and with an elaborate web of lines connecting street lights, trees, shutters, and power lines. In order to keep them out of harms (and pedestrians) way they hang the clothes high above the sidewalk with bamboo or wooden poles, reminding me of the contraptions they used to use in old school delis in New York to get things that were stacked high up on the shelves. It's not at all unusual to feel a drop of collected water hit you in the face as you hurry along your way. Looking up you might find a pair of lucky red underwear or some faded sheets, freshly hung out to dry a full story up.
There are no fewer than three vegetable stands on this block, and they get their goods in from the countryside daily. You can always tell what's in season on Danshui Lu just by looking at the baskets of greens being clipped and washed in front of the vegetable stands. A few times I asked the Shanghainese (all they generally speak on this road) name of the fresh vegetable with the idea that I would casually drop it while ordering at a restaurant later that night. But I inevitably paid for my showing off, as the waitress took that as a sign that I spoke the local lingo and began a rapid fire discourse about the greens. Sheepishly I would then have to throw my hands up and mutter "Wo bu dong", I don't understand.
If fruit is what you're after, there is even more of that. In fact, I would say that Shanghai has as much, if not more fresh fruit around than any place I've ever lived. There are fruit stands simply everywhere. On this block of Danshui Lu there are five, including the corner. I always ask myself, who buys it all? I buy my fair share, and one of the small joys in my life is the fact that they always have fresh, firm apples for sale. Lately the season has delivered a bounty of small (the size of a large grape) delicious mandarin oranges, locally called 'jin jeu'. They are firm and smooth on the outside, and you basically just pop them in your mouth and eat the whole thing, thin rind and all. Absolutely amazing; sweeter than an orange, but the rind adds the slightest hint of bitterness to the proceedings, and you don't even notice the pulp and pits. I've had a hard time keeping them on my kitchen table, as they are hard to stop eating once you start. Today I bought a bagful from my favorite place on the way home, and when the proprietress rang me up she looked at me and put up two fingers, flashing them twice. Now, understand that this lady has stuck with me through my knowing how to say 'hello' and 'thank you' and not much else, to learning (and forgetting) how to count, to finally having a very tentative grasp of Putonghua, or Mandarin. And she speaks Shanghainese, a whole other dialect. She looked at me and said what sounded like "Nee eh nee", flashing the two fingers again. Her son said something from the back, where he was doing his homework amidst the supplies and empty boxes, and they both laughed. Not at me, but knowingly - they know me by now. Then she said "Er shi er" which is Putonghua for twenty two. This may sound ridiculous, but it was a breakthrough for me. I knew she was saying twenty two in Shanghaihua, although I was too shy to ask in mandarin. But I knew! So I asked her to repeat the Shangahinese and she did and we established that it meant I owed her twenty two kuai at the end of it all. I paid and was happily on my way.
It's been unseasonably warm the last few days, and with the warm weather came the return of another interesting feature of Danshui Lu, the floating card game. As a rule this card game is going on regardless of the elements, kind of like the U.S. Postal Service. But the bitter cold of January had driven it inside somewhere, or possibly shut it down altogether. So the other evening as I walked up the road in my light sweatshirt, eating jin jeus, and enjoying the twilight, I was happy to see them back in action; right back in their favorite spot, in the middle of the sidewalk in front of a rather disreputable looking smoke shop. As usual the game itself was dwarfed by the crowd of kibitzers standing around the rickety table, smoking, spitting, and making side bets. Once when I was passing by I noticed a larger than usual crowd and realised that the card game wasn't getting the attention it usually does; in fact the heaving swell of humanity was all crowded around the front of the smoke shop instead. Not being able to resist, I walked over to take a look and discovered (after a minute or two of jostling for position) that there was a pitched cricket fight going on. Inside the shop, seated across a small table from each other were two old men, and in what looked like a small flat bowl were two glistening black crickets going at it. The tension was edible, and the action was fast, with so much money going down on the two combatants. I watched for a minute, but the novelty of my presence quickly evaporated and the gamblers edged me out to watch their investments. Seriously, you would have thought it was Ali-Frazier or the 'Thrilla in Manila' by the looks on their faces.
I have previously mentioned the notorious 'pink houses', and surprisingly, while this humble block of Danshui Lu boasts three hair salons and two foot massage places, there are no barber shops of the dodgy variety to be seen. At least not any outright ones, but you never can tell at night. One night I was walking home quite late and as I walked past one of the foot massage places a girl came out, and when she saw me she quickly smiled and said "You want massagey?"
"Foot massage?" I queried. Remember it was after midnight. I thought it was a bit late for this kind of service. She smiled slyly and said "I give you good massagey...now!" I passed.
As I walk home every day I always notice something new. Recently one of the fruiterers on the west side of the street has expanded, and now his shop seems to be two shops banged together, giving it an almost reasonable size. I will continue to buy from the ramshackle place on the corner though, despite (or possibly because of) getting heckled in Shanghainese from the lady there. Another development has been the slow proliferation of arty little boutiques along the road, always a danger sign to any old neighborhood. Just ask the East Village in New York, or Shoreditch in London. It seems especially odd on Danshui Lu, with it's rough manners and village atmosphere. But there they are; there are three now, with names like La Vie Jolie and Artiscene. They all sell jewelry, clothes, and assorted knick knackery. I'm sure the rent must be dirt cheap. I wonder if the shop owners and denizens of Danshui Lu take a moment out of their treadmill day to reflect on what these boutiques might portend? Right around the corner, across from Rich Gate all the original shops are long gone, replaced by...boutiques. Probably not, as the locals don't seem to be the most reflective people; but rather, hard working and living, in their 'head down and get on with it' Shanghai way.
There are two rough and ready little restaurants on this block that cook food in tiny shop fronts and seve their customers on crates and stools out on the sidewalk, in a low budget version of al fresco dining. The sidewalk within a ten foot radius of these places is filthy and grease stained, and the curbside perpetually cluttered with refuse from their quick, oily offerings. To be sure, these places are nerve centers for the neighborhood. Everyone from locals to the migrant construction workers from the nearby construction projects take meals here - usually a meat and a vegetable (whatever they're cooking that day) cooked in a wok in copious amounts of oil, the Shanghai way. This rough hewn meal is invariably washed down with large bottles of local Reeb beer (get it? Beer spelled backwards) and then cupfuls of cheap tea. It may not sound wonderful, but if you can get that all down your neck for ten kuai who can complain? The second place is a bit larger and actually has a few tables inside. They also serve seafood, and at certain times when a nice catch comes in they will proudly display live crayfish, crabs, or shrimp outside for all the Lu to see. Again, it's absolutely filthy to look at, but that never stops the locals from dallying on until past ten some nights, picking at bones, drinking, smoking, spitting (invariably), and basically enjoying life. I have been sorely tempted to take a seat myself when the crayfish are on offer, but can't get past the grease and grime of it all. I have eaten in much worse places in the the world (did somebody say India?) but if I'm given a choice I prefer to eat in relative cleanliness. Having said that, I have no doubt that those crayfish would be delicious. I'll have to ask if they do take-away.
And that brings me to my favorite character on the block, the fishmonger. Actually there are two fishmongers, possibly three (I can never tell, one of them just opportunistically sells whatever's going). But my fascination lies with the larger shop, just before Fuxing Lu, on the west side of the street. Like everyone else that sells anything (aside from the recent boutiques) on this block, the fishmonger's wares are displayed wherever he can find space; in his shop, on the sidewalk, in the street, and sometimes even across the street, in the form of large fish hanging from windows, drying in the sun. It is not uncommon to walk by and see three of four kiddie pools full of eels or crabs or splashing river fish impeding your path. So in this way he kind of forces you to have a look at what he's got. Talk about marketing 101. And keep your wits about you when passing his place, because anything can be hanging from hooks under his awning. One recent day I was absent-mindedly following the trajectory of a guy on a motorbike who had just finished eating at the seafood place on the opposite sidewalk; he got up, blew out the shocking contents of his nose in the general direction of the curb, coughed up something loud and long, spat it with much flair, hopped on his bike while lighting a cigarette, and peeled out, honking his horn in warning at all and sundry. Talk about multi-tasking. Mildly affronted, I followed him with my eyes until I felt a damp 'thump' against my forehead. Flinching, I looked up to see the swinging carcass of a freshly plucked duck. In fact there were many ducks, and chickens, and even a few geese, all hanging from hooks from every place imaginable. What's this, I thought. Is the fishmonger branching out?
At that moment it was about six p.m. and the dusk was settling on Danshui Lu like a dirty, well-worn jacket. I looked up at the naked flock above my head in amazement. Also hanging to dry in the twilight were blood red slabs of bacon and chubby grey fish that had been sliced in half and opened up, so that they resembled a round flounder. Just then the fishmonger, a huge man with a wedge shaped head and deep set coal black eyes, walked out and started laughing and pointing. His shirt and apron were more crimson than whatever color they originally were. In fact he looked like he'd been tarred and feathered bizarrely with dark red pitch and fish scales. His enormous black rubber boots were equally covered, and he came squishing out to the sidewalk and started booming at me in rapid fire Shanghainese. I had no idea what he was saying, but he kept pointing up at the duck I had knocked into and laughing and saying what sounded like "De va?" I have been living in Shanghai for almost a year now and this is probably the phrase I hear the most from cabbies, store clerks, or any local people. Actually he was saying 'dui ba?', which is a bastardization of 'dui ma?' or to be literal, 'correct, right?'. It's the same as saying 'right?', or in New York possibly 'You know what I'm sayin?' But alas, I didn't know what he was saying.
Nevertheless, he took the oddly skinny duck down and offered me a close up view of its waxy head and over sized webbed feet. At that point I noticed that inside the shop was what looked like his whole family, five or six people, all seated around a chopping block table eating dinner. They were all in their work clothes, and eating heartily (and noisily). They all looked up at the same time, only vaguely amused (with their dinner in front of them), and a bit puzzled. They all had the same snowman's eyes and round faces with fiery cheeks, and I thought they must be related. These are not the same Chinese people you meet at parties and night clubs. These are the People of the People's Republic. Then the big boss said something and they all erupted with laughter. I looked back and he was thrusting the dead duck towards me and everyone thought that was pretty funny too. I started laughing also, and then he pulled down one of the Frisbee fish and showed me that, making another crack out of the side of his mouth that brought the house down again. It was funny too, I could tell that. He had very natural comic timing, something I always find hard not to appreciate even if it's aimed at me in an incomprehensible language. So I walked over to the wall and pointed to what looked like a splayed open narwhal hanging on a nail. Really, I had been marvelling at these fish from the fist time I saw them drying against his wall a few weeks earlier. They are silver and shaped something like a tarpon, and average about five feet long. "Zhe ge shen me?" I asked, and pulled a face; and then there was one of those beautiful moments in comedy called the broad take...and then everyone started cracking up. I guess just the fact that I'd spoken (quite possibly incorrect) Chinese was enough of a shocker to the convulse the peanut gallery. They really were getting a kick out of it, repeating what I'd said with obvious relish over and over. All I'd asked was "what's this?"
Deflecting the fishmongers overtures to buy a big dried fish for my house brought on another round of giggling. As if I'd have the first idea what to do with it. He kept pointing to it and saying, among other things, "Chun jie", his small black eyes glittering in the reflection of the lone bulb hanging above him. "Chun jie" they all kept saying, and I was familiar with the term, but my Chinese being extremely shaky, I panicked and couldn't put two and two together. I pantomimed my adieus and we all shared a last snicker, having shared a joke that we hardly understood. But it was good natured, and I was glad of this human contact, this small moment.
***
I walked away happy and scratching my head at what he could have possibly been saying to me that was so funny. When I got home I went right to my Chinese lessons and searched through my notes. And there it was. Chun jie means Spring Festival, or Chinese New Year, an event that will take place starting next week. So that's why all the delicacies were hanging there. The next day I asked my Chinese tutor about those big fish and she told me they are called 'man yu', and they are caught in the ocean and eaten in soups and stews after being dried. Then I recalled hearing that word over and over again too. Of course they were laughing; in their world Chun Jie only comes once a year and it's the biggest celebration of the year, and I was pointing to a fish that's ritualistically eaten during the Spring Festival. Every Shanghainese person, young and old knows about man yu.
And now I do too.
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